PHOEBE,   ERNEST,   AND 
CUPID 


By 


INEZ    HAYNES   GILLMORE 

Author  of 
"Phoebe  and  Ernest,"  "Janey,"  etc. 


With  Illustrations  by 

R.    F.   SCHABELITZ 


NEW   YORK 

HENRY    HOLT   AND    COMPANY 

1912 


4  ^ 


Copyright,  igio.  1911,  1912. 

BY 

THE  PHILLIPS  PUBLISHING  CO. 
Copyright,  1912, 

BY 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 
Published  October^  1912 


«►"« 


uu 


TNI    OUINN    *    iOOFN    CO.    mill 
HAHWAY,    N.   J. 


Co 

E.  L. 
S.  L.  L. 
L.  J.  L. 


271111 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

I.  Ernest  and  the  Law  of  Order 

II.  Phoebe  and  the  Little  Blind  God 

III.  Phoebe  Among  the  Bohemians 

IV.  Ernest  Lays  down  His  Arms 
V.  Phoebe  Closes  with  Cupid    . 

VI.  The  Discoveries     . 

VII.  The  House  Book  . 

VIII.  I,  Phoebe,  Take  Thee,  Toland 

IX.  Ernest  and  the  Conspirators 

X.  Phoebe  and  the  Most  Important  Bird 

XI.  Till  He  Gets  Him  a  Wife    . 

XII.  The  Found  Children     . 


PAGE 

I 

25 
55 

100 

128 

154 
184 
215 
242 
265 
288 
313 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

And  I  walked  out  of  the  shop  and  left  him  there  .     Frontispiece 

PAGE 

No,  I  tell  you  what  let's  do,  father — we'll  send  mother  on 
to  Princeton  to  visit  Ern 15 

Sometimes  when  the  "gang"  is  here  we  have  dinner  in 
"The  Garret" 93 

"Oh,  Phoebe!"  he  said  in  a  careless  voice.  "Phoebe  is 
not  like  other  girls.    She  won't  bother  us  any"       .         .     102 

"  Thank  you,  Mrs.  Martin,"  she  said,  "  you've  saved  my 
life.  Mother  and  father,  I'm  engaged  to  Tug  Warbur- 
ton" 135 

"  Mother  Martin,"  Phoebe  said,  bursting  into  the  conver- 
sation, "  is  that  true,  every  word  of  it?  "  .         .         .         .     167 

Talk  about  your  hanging  gardens  of  Babylon !    .         .         .     226 

"  Pretty — snappy — work — Mr.  Martin !  "  she  said.  And 
then,  "  Do — you — love — my — little — girl — father — dear- 
est?"       286 


PHOEBE,  ERNEST,  AND  CUPID 

CHAPTER  I 

ERNEST  AND  THE  LAW  OF  ORDER 

OUTSIDE  a  late  September  gale  was  tearing 
the  landscape  into  shreds.  The  roads,  car- 
peted with  a  sodden  mat  of  fallen  leaves,  ran  be- 
tween yellow  gutter-torrents.  Most  of  the  flower- 
plots  on  the  Martin  place  looked  as  if  they  had  been 
trampled.  Only  the  sturdier  blooms — asters  and 
dahlias — arose  to  their  full  height  after  the  wind- 
gusts  had  passed.  The  elms  and  maples,  tortured 
into  monstrous  distortions  of  themselves,  wrestled 
with  the  elements  like  human  things. 

The  note  of  destruction  seemed  to  be  carried  out 
in  Ernest's  room.  A  trunk  gaped  empty  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  floor.  About  it  lay  books,  papers,  shoes, 
hats  and  caps.  A  confused  mass  of  clothes  hid  the 
bed.  All  the  wall  decorations — trophies  of  his 
many  sporting  interests — were  down.  Ernest  had 
left  them  in  dusty  heaps  just  where  they  fell.  The 
paper  of  the  high,  gaunt  walls  showed  faded  spots, 
their  exact  shape.  It  was  as  if  Ernest,  emerging  into 
manhood,  were  leaving  the  empty  shell  of  his  boy- 
hood behind. 


2  Ernest  and  the  Law  of  Order 

Mrs.  Martin  sank  listlessly  into  the  big  chair 
and  gazed  about  her.  The  storm  outside  and  the 
storm  inside  seemed  a  mere  echo  of  the  tempest  in 
her  own  heart.  For  Mrs.  Martin's  nerves  were  all 
on  edge  that  morning.  Just  after  breakfast,  the 
arrival  of  Ernest's  new  trunk  had  seemed  to  put  an 
extra,  a  poignant  finish  to  the  long  fight  which  she 
had  waged,  single-handed. 

In  brief,  the  struggle  had  been  with  Ernest.  And 
Ernest  had  won.    He  was  leaving  home  in  a  week. 

Mrs.  Martin  had  always  realized  that  the  time 
would  come  when  she  must  step  down  from  her  posi- 
tion as  dictator  of  her  children's  lives,  must  hand 
the  reins  of  government  over  to  them.  Her  only 
complaint  was  that,  to  her,  it  had  come  prematurely. 
In  Ernest's  case,  she  had  consciously  watched  the 
successive  stages  of  his  approach  to  manhood  free- 
dom. First,  she  had  caught  him  shaving  in  secret. 
A  little  later,  things  had  so  fallen  that  it  seemed 
wise  to  give  him  a  latch-key — this,  at  least  two  years 
earlier  than  she  had  planned.  Often  now  he  spent 
his  evenings  away  from  home.  Mrs.  Martin  never 
asked  any  questions  about  these  nocturnal  excursions. 
But  she  was  glad  that  Ernest  volunteered  his  brief 
curt  account  of  them.  In  fact,  she  plumed  herself 
on  the  composure  with  which  she  reconciled  herself 
to  these  steps.  She  only  hoped  that  the  succeeding 
ones  would  come  with  an  equal  slowness  and  nat- 
uralness. 

There  was  no  reason  to  think  they  would  not. 
They  were  planning  to  send  Ernest  to  Harvard. 


Ernest  and  the  Law  of  Order  3 

All  the  years  that  her  son  had  been  growing  up, 
Mrs.  Martin  had  been  counting  on  those  four 
years  at  Cambridge.  She  always  thought  happily 
of  them  as  a  little  nest-egg  tucked  away  in  the  bank 
of  her  happiness.  When  the  time  should  come,  she 
promised  herself  that  she  would  spend  it  prodigally. 
Ernest  would  be  a  man  and  of  course  emancipate. 
But  he  would  sleep  at  home.  He  would  spend  his 
Sundays  and  his  holidays  with  his  family.  A  long, 
wide  road  of  content  stretched  four  years  ahead  into 
Mrs.  Martin's  future.  And  then,  suddenly,  like  the 
traditional  bolt  from  the  blue,  the  unforeseen  hap- 
pened. 

Ernest  had  announced  that  he  did  not  want  to 
go  to  Harvard;  he  wanted  to  go  to  Princeton.  His 
reason  for  this  change  in  plan  was  vague.  For  a 
long  time,  he  had  been  thinking  that  he  would  prefer 
one  of  the  smaller  colleges.  The  summer  before,  at 
Camp  Hello,  he  had  met  Sandy  Williston.  Sandy 
was  a  sophomore  at  Princeton  and  a  crackerjack. 
He  had  told  Ernest  a  lot  about  his  alma  mater  and 
the  long  and  the  short  of  it  was  that  Ernest  wanted 
to  go  there. 

Mrs.  Martin  set  herself  against  this  scheme  with 
all  the  intensity  of  her  nature.  And  at  first  both 
Mr.  Martin  and  Phoebe  sided  with  her. 

"  It's  out  of  the  question,  Ernest,"  Mr.  Martin 
said.  "  You  know  that  I've  always  wanted  you  to 
go  to  Harvard.  Now  don't  bother  me  with  it 
again." 

"  Well,  Ern  Martin,"  Phoebe  said,  "  if  you  aren't 


4  Ernest  and  the  Law  of  Order 

the  queer  thing!  Why,  you've  talked  Harvard  to 
me  until  you  were  blue  in  the  face.  If  you  only 
knew  the  thousands  of  times  I've  lain  awake  nights 
planning  your  class-day  spread!  " 

Ernest  sulked  for  a  week  and  Mrs.  Martin 
thought  the  episode  was  closed.  But  apparently  he 
re-opened  the  siege  and  this  time  in  secret.  For 
first  Phoebe  deserted  with  a : 

11  Well,  mother,  I  was  talking  with  Ern  last  night 
and,  come  to  think  of  it,  I  don't  see  why  he  shouldn't 
do  what  he  likes.  Besides,  with  Tug  at  Harvard  and 
Ern  at  Princeton,  I'll  have  a  pull  at  two  colleges. 
And  it  would  be  perfectly  dandy  going  up  there  to 
visit  Ern — he  says  that  Sandy  says  that  the  Prince- 
ton Inn  is  a  perfect  pippin.  Ern  says  he'll  do  any- 
thing for  me  when  I  come  on." 

Phoebe's  defection  counted  for  little;  Mrs.  Mar- 
tin fought  on,  calmly  confident  of  victory.  And 
then  one  night  Ernest  had  a  long  talk  with  his 
father. 

"  Mother,"  Mr.  Martin  said  to  his  wife  after 
they  went  to  bed,  "  I  guess  we've  got  to  let  Ernest 
go.  After  all,  it's  a  thing  he  ought  to  settle  for 
himself.  We  don't  want  to  have  him  say  later  that 
we  stood  in  the  way  of  his  doing  the  thing  he  most 
wanted  to  do."  And  at  a  panic-stricken  remon- 
strance from  Mrs.  Martin,  he  added,  "  I  must  say, 
Bertha,  I  don't  see  why  you  hold  out  so.  You 
certainly  put  it  up  to  me  all  right  when  it  was  a 
question  of  Phoebe's  going  to  Europe.  The  truth 
of  the  matter  is,  the  boy^s  tied  too  close  to  your 


Ernest  and  the  Law  of  Order  5 

apron-strings.  He  doesn't  say  it's  that.  He  doesn't 
know  it's  that.  But  that's  the  whole  thing  in  a  nut- 
shell." 

Tied  to  her  apron-strings!  Mrs.  Martin  had 
never  realized  in  full  the  ignominy  of  that  insulting 
phrase.  She  did  not  sleep  all  night.  And  in  the 
morning  she  said,  "  Ernest,  if  your  heart  is  set  on 
going  to  Princeton,  I  have  no  further  objection  to 
offer." 

"  Well,  you  see  that  it  doesn't  happen  again — 
that's  all !  "     This  was  Ernest's  voice. 

"  Well,  you  bettah  quit  a-talking  dat-away  to  me 
or  Ah'll  jess  natchally "   This  was  Flora's  voice. 

Mrs.  Martin  started  out  of  her  preoccupation  and 
listened.  What  she  heard  brought  her,  almost  on 
a  run,  to  the  door.  There,  she  listened  again.  It 
was  unmistakable — the  sounds  coming  from  the 
kitchen  were  of  strife,  not  merriment. 

"Ernie!"  she  called  peremptorily.  "Come  up 
here  this  minute.    I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

"  All  right."  Ernest's  tone  was  that  of  a  sulky 
acquiescence.  But  when,  an  instant  later,  he  came 
leaping  up  the  stairs,  the  fire  of  an  active  wrath 
still  burned  in  his  eyes. 

"  What  is  it  this  time?  "  his  mother  asked  sternly. 

"  It's  the  way  that  dinge  does  my  bed,  mother. 
I've  been  giving  her  ballyhoo  for  it.  She  either 
tucks  the  clothes  in  too  loose  so  that  they  all  come 
out  at  the  foot  and  I  never  can  get  them  back,  or 


6  Ernest  and  the  Law  of  Order 

she  tucks  them  in  so  far  that  there's  nothing  to 
come  up  around  my  neck.  I  never  saw  such  a 
fool-coon  in  my  life.  I  wish  you'd  fire  her — she's 
no  good." 

11  Ernie,"  Mrs.  Martin  said  desperately,  "  don't 
you  say  another  word  to  Flora  until  I  give  you 
permission.  If  she  should  leave  me  in  the  lurch  with 
your  Uncle  Paul  and  your  Aunt  Susie  coming  for 

over  Sunday If  you  have  any  fault  to  find  with 

her,  tell  me  and  I'll  see  that  it's  remedied.  I 
wouldn't  lose  Flora  for  a  farm  down  east.  She's 
the  best  girl  I  ever  had." 

"  She's  too  fresh,"  Ernest  growled. 

u  That's  only  because  you're  so  saucy  to  her. 
How  many  times,  Ernie,  have  I  told  you  that  you 
ought  to  show  more  consideration  to  servants?  The 
way  things  are  in  this  world,  they're  placed  in  a 
very  disagreeable  position.  You  go  down  there  and 
rile  them  all  up.  And  yet  no  matter  what  you  say 
or  how  mad  they  get,  they  can't  answer  back.  For 
they  know,  if  I  overhear  it,  I've  got  to  discharge 
them.  That's  why  you  should  never  get  into  a 
quarrel  with  them,  no  matter  what  they  do.  It's 
cowardly — you're  hitting  somebody  weaker  than 
yourself.  I  don't  know  how  I'm  ever  going  to  teach 
you  that,  for  I  don't  believe  there's  a  week  of  your 
life  gone  by  that  I  haven't  said  this  very  same  thing 
to  you." 

"  Well,  I  guess  I'm  not  going  to  take  any  back 
talk  from  a  great  fat  smoke  like  Flora.  If  she  was 
a  man,  I'd  hand  her  the  swiftest  wallop  she  ever 


Ernest  and  the  Law  of  Order  7 

got.  Ever  since  she  won  that  fifty  cents  off  me  on 
the  prize-fight,  she  thinks  she's  made.  I  bet  you 
Williams  don't  keep  the  championship  two  years. 
When  did  he  ever  go  up  against  a  first-class  pug, 
anyway?  " 

"  That  will  do,  Ernie.  And  don't  you  mention 
that  prize-fight  again.  I  am  sick  and  tired  of  the 
sound  of  the  name.  And  remember  I  shall  punish 
you  severely  if  you  get  into  any  more  trouble  with 
Flora." 

At  the  harshness  of  his  mother's  tone,  Ernest 
looked  at  her  in  surprise.  And  with  the  entrance 
into  her  admonition  of  "  punish  you  severely,"  a 
phrase  long  extinct  from  family  discipline,  he 
emitted  a  low  whistle.  He  changed  it  into  the 
opening  bars  of  the  "  Villikins  and  his  Dinah  "  and 
he  made  a  great  pretense  of  indifference  as  he 
turned  away. 

Mrs.  Martin  fell  back  into  her  reverie.  Ernest 
was  not  as  competent  as  a  baby  to  take  care  of  him- 
self. The  disturbance  that  she  had  just  quelled  illus- 
trated one  of  his  crotchets  perfectly.  He  had  abso- 
lutely no  capacity  for  getting  along  with  servants. 
Phoebe,  much  more  diplomatic,  always  managed  to 
keep  on  the  right  side  of  them.  But  Ernest — Mrs. 
Martin  had  tried  American,  Irish,  African,  Swede 
— there  had  been  one  ghastly  week  in  which  an 
Italian  reigned  in  the  kitchen.  The  result  was  al- 
ways the  same.  Ernest  immediately  started  on 
the  war-path.  It  was  not  so  much  that  he  stole  pies, 
cakes,  cookies,  jellies,  preserves.     It  was  not  even 


8  Ernest  and  the  Law  of  Order 

that  he  brought  hordes  of  boys  into  the  house  to 
track  mud  over  stainless  kitchen  floors.  It  was 
more  that  he  eternally  argued  with  them.  And 
when  Ernest  started  an  argument — unconsciously 
Mrs.  Martin's  figure  slumped  in  her  chair. 

Mrs.  Martin  tried  to  picture  Ernest  in  a  strange 
boarding  house,  surrounded  by  strange  people,  min- 
istered to  by  strange  servants.  Well,  she  knew  what 
would  happen.  There  would  be  a  row  and  that  was 
all  there  was  to  it.  And  she  or  Mr.  Martin  would 
have  to  go  on  to  patch  it  up. 

"Ern!    Ern!" 

It  was  Phoebe  calling.  And  there  was  that  note 
in  her  voice  which  brought  Mrs.  Martin  out  of  her 
meditation  and  impelled  her  to  listen — to  listen  with 
the  air  of  one  slightly  on  the  defensive.  It  was 
one  thing  for  her  to  criticize  Ernest  and  another 
thing  for  anybody  else  to  do  it.  The  son  and  heir 
of  the  Martin  family  could  always  be  sure  of  one 
champion  in  it. 

"Ern  Martin!"  Phoebe's  voice  had  an  inflec- 
tion positively  dangerous. 

11  Oh,  what  is  it?  "  came  Ernest's  sulky  tones. 

14  Ern  Martin,  if  you  ever  again  leave  the  bath- 
room looking  the  way  it  does  now  when  I'm  expect- 
ing company,  I'll — I'll — well,  I  don't  know  what  I 
will  do.  But  it  will  be  something  you'll  remember. 
If  Sylvia  Gordon  had  happened  to  glance  in  it,  I 
should  have  sunk  to  the  ground.  It  looks  like  a 
bird-cage  after  the  canary's  taken  a  bath.    The  ceil- 


Ernest  and  the  Law  of  Order  9 

ing's  the  only  thing  that  isn't  splashed !  And  towels 
— and  wash-rags — and  sponges " 

The  last  words  came  in  jerks.  Mrs.  Martin  visu- 
alized Phoebe's  lithe  stoopings,  her  curling  nostril, 
as  she  picked  these  messy  articles  up. 

" and  as  for  the  tub — well,  I'd  be  ashamed  to 

let  people  know  I  could  get  so  dirty.  When  I  think 
that,  somewhere  in  the  world,  Ern  Martin,  there's 
a  poor  helpless  female  growing  up  that's  going  to 
draw  you  for  a  husband,  I  pity  her  more  than  tongue 
can  tell.  That  mutt  of  a  patient  Griselda  that  we 
studied  in  Chaucer  won't  be  a  circumstance  to  her. 
With  mother  Martin  working  her  hands  to  the  bone 
getting  you  ready  for  college,  I  should  think " 

"  Oh,  dry  up !  "  came  in  wrathful  explosion  from 
Ernest.    His  door  slammed. 

But,  undiscouraged,  Phoebe  kept  on,  sure  of  one 
listener.  "  My  goodness,  I  hope  when  I  get  mar- 
ried, all  my  children  will  be  girls.  Boys  like  to  be 
dirty — they  aren't  comfortable  clean.  They  ought 
to  be  chained  in  sties  or  kennelsruntil  they're  about 
eighteen.  Then  perhaps  decent  people  would  live 
with  them." 

"  I  was  just  about  to  say,  Phoebe,"  Mrs.  Martin 
made  crisp  interruption  of  this  flow  of  eloquence, 
"  that  if  you  pick  up  the  floor  of  your  closet  and 
tidy  up  your  top  bureau  drawer,  I'll  listen  with  more 
interest  to  what  you've  got  to  say  about  Ernie." 

But  although  Mrs.  Martin  rebuked  Phoebe  so 
sharply,  this  second  incident  allied  itself  as  disturb- 


io  Ernest  and  the  Law  of  Order 

ingly  as  the  first  with  the  pessimistic  trend  of  her  rev- 
erie. It  intensified  her  conviction  that  Ernest  could 
not  cope,  single-handed,  with  the  outside  world. 

She  considered  that  in  some  ways  she  had  not  had 
so  much  to  contend  with  in  her  son  as  most  mothers. 
Personal  cleanliness,  for  instance.  Not  that,  as  a 
little  fellow,  Ernest  had  enjoyed  bathing  more  than 
any  other  boy.  In  his  childhood,  she  had  to  exercise 
an  unending  surveillance  over  his  hair,  his  teeth,  his 
finger-nails.  But  his  passion  for  athletics  had  helped 
to  supplement  her  instructions.  At  the  gym,  he  ac- 
quired the  shower-bath  habit.  And  after  that,  the 
daily  cold  plunge  followed  as  a  matter  of  course. 
As  for  clothes — his  first  girl-interest  aroused  plenty 
of  sartorial  enthusiasm.  Mrs.  Martin  never  had  to 
speak  to  him  again  about  clean  collars,  fresh  hand- 
kerchiefs, polished  shoes.  No,  when  it  came  to  his 
appearance,  Mrs.  Martin  had  absolutely  no  worries. 
But  on  the  other  hand  Ernest's  carelessness — his 
heedlessness,  his  mother  preferred  to  call  it — was 
colossal,  epic,  unbelievable. 

Ernest  never  shut  a  door,  a  drawer,  or  a  box; 
he  never  put  anything  back  in  its  place;  he  always 
put  it  down  wherever  he  happened  to  be.  In 
changing  his  clothes,  he  dropped  discarded  articles 
in  his  tracks.  He  had  a  capacity  for  walking  over 
things,  of  stumbling  into  things,  of  knocking  things 
oft  and  pushing  things  over,  that  amounted  to  a  very 
genius  of  destruction.  It  was  almost  as  if  the  whole 
world  of  matter  were  in  collusion  against  him,  as  if, 
at  his  approach,  all  natural  laws  repudiated  their 


Ernest  and  the  Law  of  Order  ir 

functions.  The  attraction  of  gravity,  for  instance, 
either  stopped  entirely,  thereby  permitting  inanimate 
objects  to  take  wings  and  fly  through  the  air;  or  it 
became  trebly  powerful  and  pulled  things  off  their 
resting-places  on  to  the  floor.  His  progress  through 
the  house  was  as  devastating  as  a  prairie  fire.     As 

for  his  room He  was  as  little  indoors  as  any 

active  boy,  but  three  times  a  day  Mrs.  Martin  re- 
created system  from  the  wreckage  there. 

No  more  mentally  than  physically  had  Ernest  ad- 
justed himself  to  the  world  in  which  he  lived.  Tele- 
grams or  letters  that  he  sent  never  arrived,  theater- 
tickets  that  he  bought  always  bore  the  wrong  dates, 
money  lost  itself  out  of  his  pockets.  As  for  errands 
— it  was  like  sending  an  idiot  boy.  He  always  came 
home  with  something,  but  never  with  the  thing  for 
which  he  had  gone. 

What  would  he  do  all  alone  at  college? 

Yet  he  wanted — there  was  the  jab  of  it — he 
wanted  to  go  away  from  home.  Ernest  did  not 
realize  that  she  had  been  a  good  mother.  He  was 
not  even  grateful  for  her  care. 

In  point  of  fact,  the  unanalytic  and  inarticulate 
Ernest  had  never  consciously  considered  the  matter. 
He  took  as  a  matter  of  course  the  yearning,  hover- 
ing, brooding  solicitude  with  which  his  mother 
invested  every  move  of  his  existence. 

11  No  matter  what  time  of  night  I  come  in,"  he 
used  to  say,  "  I  always  find  her  waiting  at  the  top 
of  the  stairs  to  talk  with  me.  She's  like  a  well- 
trained  fire-horse:  When  I  put  my  key  in  the  lock, 


12  Ernest  and  the  Law  of  Order 

that  rings  gong  number  one  and  she  comes  out  of 
the  stall.  When  I  open  the  door,  that  rings  gong 
number  two  and  the  harness  drops  on  her  back. 
When  I  put  my  foot  on  the  first  stair,  that  rings 
gong  number  three  and  off  she  trots  to  the  fire — 
meaning  me.  Why,  one  night  when  I  went  to  bed, 
it  was  so  hot  that  I  left  my  windows  all  wide  open. 
In  the  middle  of  the  night,  I  waked  up  out  of  a 
sound  sleep  and  there  was  Mrs.  Edward  D.  Martin 
putting  the  windows  down  because  it  was  raining. 
Later  I  woke  up  about  half-melted  and  opened  them 
all  again.  When  I  got  up  in  the  morning,  there 
they  were,  all  shut  but  one.  Mother  had  come  in 
before  sunrise  for  fear  I'd  freeze  to  death." 

Mrs.  Martin  always  laughed  when  he  told  these 
jokes  on  her — laughed  with  a  pleased,  proud  sense 
of  his  appreciation  of  the  love  behind  them.  But 
after  all  they  were  only  jokes  to  Ernest.  He  did 
not  like  that  care.  He  wanted  to  get  away  from 
it.  Mrs.  Martin  suddenly  thought  back  to  her  girl- 
hood and  her  own  dead  mother.  A  mist  came  over 
her  eyes.  "  I  wonder  if  I  appreciated  her  as  much 
as  I  should?  "  she  asked  herself. 

She  had  tried  her  best  to  teach  him  system,  to 
teach  him  order,  but  it  was  like  preaching  to  a 
waterfall.  He  never  had  learned.  He  never  would 
learn.  And  yet  she  had  done  the  best  she  could. 
Why  had  she  failed?  But  what  was  the  use  of 
going  over  it :  the  matter  was  now  quite  out  of  her 
hands? 

She  heaved  a  great  sigh.    Opening  the  door,  she 


Ernest  and  the  Law  of  Order  13 

called  to  her  son:  "Come  down,  Ernie.  It's  time 
you  began  to  pack  your  trunk." 

"  I  don't  know  what's  got  into  me,"  she  thought 
in  the  interval  while  she  waited  for  him,  "  I  don't 
seem  to  have  any  more  get-up-and-get  than  a  sick 
cat.  Perhaps  I've  been  working  too  hard.  I'll  try 
to  rest  up  after  Ernie's  gone." 

But  Mrs.  Martin  did  not  "  rest  up  "  after  Ernest 
left,  although,  physically,  she  was  idle  enough.  A 
great  silence  seemed  to  fall  upon  her.  It  was  as  if 
the  house  were  but  an  empty,  echoing  stage,  Phoebe's 
gay  gossip  but  the  chorus  to  some  wonderful  lost 
drama.  The  days  went  by,  one  like  another.  Regu- 
larly three  times  a  week  she  wrote  to  Ernest;  long, 
rambling,  gentle  epistles,  saturated  with  affection 
and  bristling  with  questions.  Regularly  once  a 
week  came  Ernest's  brief  answering  scrawl  in  which 
a  maximum  of  general  statements  diffused  a  mini- 
mum of  concrete  information.  Ernest  expected  to 
"  make  end  "  on  the  freshman  football  team.  The 
big  game  with  Yale  would  come  somewhere  in  No- 
vember. But  at  no  time  had  Ernest's  athletics  inter- 
ested his  mother  as  much  as  they  worried  her.  And 
now  she  read  with  indifference  the  news  that  Mr. 
Martin  and  Phoebe  discussed  eternally.  She  was 
much  more  interested  in  the  "  horsing  "  to  which 
his  first  few  days  subjected  him — interested  because, 
inwardly,  she  boiled  with  indignation  over  what  her 
husband  and  daughter  went  into  peals  of  laughter. 
And  all  these  events  gained  a  puzzling  and  irritating 
suggestion  of  remoteness  from  the  fact  that  Ernest 


14  Ernest  and  the  Law  of  Order 

had  picked  up  a  new  vocabulary.  With  her  usual 
adaptability,  Phoebe  immediately  adopted  these 
quaint  exotics  of  the  Princeton  campus.  But,  curi- 
ously enough,  though  in  Phoebe's  speech,  Mrs.  Mar- 
tin did  not  mind  such  nouns  as  "  shark,"  or  "  poler," 
or  "  pepp,"  such  verbs  as  M  to  flunk "  and  "  to 
gloom,"  it  gave  her  a  homesick  feeling  to  come  upon 
them  in  Ernest's  letters.  The  single  high  light  in 
the  whole  situation  was  Ernest's  class  picture,  al- 
though she  resented  bitterly  the  obscuring  shower  of 
flour  to  which  the  upper  classmen  had  submitted  the 
group.  No,  Ernest's  letters  were  far  from  satis- 
factory to  his  mother.  A  week  passed  and  two  and 
three,  a  month — and  over. 

"Bertha,  what  is  the  matter  with  you?"  Mr. 
Martin  said  more  than  once.  "  You  don't  seem  to 
have  any  sprawl  to  you.  For  one  thing,  you  don't 
eat  enough  to  keep  a  bird  alive." 

11  Oh,  nothing's  the  matter  with  me,  Edward," 
Mrs.  Martin  would  answer.  "  I  got  a  little  tired 
getting  Ernie  ready.    I  shall  pick  up  after  a  while." 

But  she  did  not  pick  up.  In  fact  she  ate  little 
and  slept  less.  She  got  whiter  and  thinner.  And 
she,  who  had  been  the  most  busy  of  women,  fell  into 
the  habit  of  sitting  for  hours,  empty-handed,  staring 
vaguely  into  the  fire  or  out  the  window. 

"  Bertha,"  Mr.  Martin  said  peremptorily  one 
night,  "  you  put  on  your  things  the  moment  we've 
had  dinner.  I've  had  enough  of  this  foolishness. 
I'm  going  to  take  you  to  Dr.  Bush  and  see  what's 
the  matter." 


No,  I  tell  you  what  let's  do,  father — we'll  send  mother  on  to  Princeton 
to  visit  Ern.     There's  a  beautiful  hotel  there.  Now,  mother, 
don't  say  another  word,  for  you're  going." 


Ernest  and  the  Law  of  Order  15 

"  I  know  what's  the  matter,"  Phoebe  said  in  the 
clarion  tones  of  one  of  her  sudden  discoveries,  "  she 
wants  to  see  Ern  Martin.  Oh,  yes,  you  do,  mother," 
she  continued  trenchantly  as  her  mother  started  to 
speak,  "  you're  just  dying  of  homesickness  for  him. 
She's  afraid  he's  starving  to  death,  father.  Just  as 
if  Ern  Martin  would  go  hungry  if  there  was  any 
food  round  he  could  steal." 

"  Well,  we'll  send  for  Ernest,  then,"  Mr.  Martin 
said  after  a  long  moment,  when  with  pursed  lips 
and  furrowed  brow  he  studied  his  wife's  listless  face. 

"  No,  it  won't  do  any  good  to  send  for  him," 
Phoebe  said  with  another  of  her  rare  illuminations. 
"  He'll  be  restless  and  go  peeving  round  all  the  time 
and  then  mother'll  begin  to  sacrifice  herself  again. 
No,  I  tell  you  what  let's  do,  father — we'll  send 
mother  on  to  Princeton  to  visit  Ern.  There's  a 
beautiful  hotel  there.  Now,  mother,  don't  say  an- 
other word,  for  you're  going." 

"  But  what  will  you  and  your  father  do?  "  Mrs. 
Martin  managed  to  get  in. 

"  Do !  "  Phoebe  answered  with  a  robust  buoyancy, 
"  why,  do  without!  I  guess  I  can  make  a  stagger  at 
running  this  house.  And  I  guess  father  won't  come 
down  with  locomotor  ataxia  or  anything  like  it  if 
he  happens  to  come  home  one  night  to  a  bad  dinner 
after  twenty-odd  years  of  good  ones.  In  fact,  I 
announce  now,  Mr.  Martin,  that  it  will  be  your 
privilege  to  take  your  daughter  twice  a  week  into 
the  Touraine.  Now  don't  get  scared,  mother. 
Everything  will  go  all  right.     And  don't  you  say 


1 6  Ernest  and  the  Law  of  Order 

a  word  to  me  about  red-flannel  hash  or  minced  lamb 
on  toast — there's  going  to  be  no  economizing  while 
I  run  the  house.  We'll  have  terrapin  if  I  take  it  into 
my  head — although  I  never  can  remember  whether 
it's  a  squab  or  some  kind  of  classy  fish." 

Mr.  Martin  seemed  instinctively  to  realize  who 
was  the  young  Napoleon  of  this  domestic  crisis. 
"  Your  mother  ought  to  have  some  new  clothes, 
oughtn't  she?" 

"  I  was  just  about  to  say,  father,"  Phoebe  offered 
serenely,  "  that  we  ought  not  to  let  mother  go  up 
there,  looking  like  a  back  number.  There's  a  sale 
on  this  week  at  Hazen's  of  French  suits — all  models. 
And  I  think  we  ought  to  go  in  to-morrow  and  get 
one — that'll  save  fussing  with  a  dressmaker.  Then 
I  want  her  to  have  a  nice  feather-boa — it's  too  early 
for  furs.  Her  new  hat's  all  right.  I  guess  a  hun- 
dred dollars  will  cover  it." 

Mrs.  Martin  gasped.  "  Oh,  Edward,  it  won't  be 
as  expensive  as  that." 

"  Mother,"  Phoebe  said  severely,  "  Ernest  has 
been  meeting  a  whole  lot  of  boys'  mothers,  and  I'm 
not  going  to  have  him  thinking  his  mother  doesn't 
know  what's  what." 

That  night  Phoebe  despatched  the  following  note 
to  her  brother: 

Dear  Ern: 

Mother  is  coming  on  Monday  to  spend  a  week  with 
you.  It  is  just  as  I  thought.  She  is  simply  dying  by 
inches  because  she  misses  you  so.     And  if  you  don't  give 


Ernest  and  the  Law  of  Order  17 

her  the  time  of  her  life,  it's  because  you're  the  limit.  I 
hope  I  never  grow  as  fond  of  any  son  of  mine  as  Mother 
Martin  is  of  you. 

Aff'ly, 

Phoebe. 
P.S. — You  are  no  worse  than  any  other  boy.     But  the 
best  of  them  are  none  too  good.  P. 

What  was  the  immediate  and  exact  psychological 
effect  of  that  letter  is  a  part  of  unwritten  history. 
But  as  soon  as  the  mail  could  bring  it,  Mrs.  Martin 
received  the  following : 

Dear  Mother: 

Phoebe  says  you're  coming  on  for  a  week.  Good  for 
you!  Better  make  it  a  month,  for  the  change  will  do 
you  good.    We'll  paint  the  town  red. 

Your  loving  son, 

Ernest  Martin. 

P.S. — Will  you  bring  on  to  me  that  box  that  I  packed 
and  put  in  the  attic.  There's  clothes  and  a  whole  lot 
of  truck  in  it  that  I  need. 

2  P.S. — Ask  Flora  to  send  on  one  of  her  apple  pies. 
Tell  her  she  can  put  it  all  over  anybody  here  on  cooking. 
We've  broken  training  and  I  can  eat  anything.  It's  the 
only  consolation  I've  got.  When  I  see  you  I'll  tell  you 
how  we  happened  to  lose. 

Ordinarily  there  was  nothing  in  the  world  that 
Mrs.  Martin  dreaded  so  much  as  a  railroad  journey 
alone.     But  as  the  limited  pulled  out  of  the  South 


1 8  Ernest  and  the  Law  of  Order 

Station  in  Boston,  she  was  conscious  of  the  first 
loosening  from  her  spirit  of  its  great  burden.  With 
every  mile  some  of  her  tension  vanished.  Her  burn- 
ing desire  to  reach  Princeton  seemed  to  dissipate  all 
the  embarrassments  and  all  the  annoyances  of  travel. 
Not  that  she  was  not  prepared  to  cope  with  them. 
In  her  hand-bag  was  a  list  of  directions  in  the  dash- 
ing chirography  of  her  traveled  daughter.  It  ran 
something  like  this: 

Go  into  dining-room  at  first  call  for  luncheon — the  food 
is  better  then. 

Tip  waiter  twenty-five  cents.  It  is  too  much,  but 
they'll  treat  you  like  the  dust  under  their  feet  if  you  don't. 

Get  red-cap  at  Grand  Central  to  take  your  bag.  Tip 
him  ten  cents. 

Take  Pennsylvania  Cab.     Get  red-cap  at,  etc. 

By  the  middle  of  the  afternoon,  Mrs.  Martin 
was  in  the  paradoxical  condition  of  one  who  acquires 
a  sense  of  increasing  mental  repose  parallel  with 
increasing  physical  fatigue.  And  when  at  the  end 
of  the  day,  her  eye  fell  on  Ernest,  standing  in  the 
station  and  eagerly  running  his  eye  up  and  down 
the  length  of  the  train,  a  heavy  inner  something 
seemed  to  burst,  seemed  to  release  another  some- 
thing that  soared  and  fluttered  with  joy.  But  none 
of  this  appeared  in  her  face  as  she  scrutinized  her 
son. 

Ernest  had  changed.  How,  she  could  not  deter- 
mine.    At  first  she  thought  it  was  because  of  his 


Ernest  and  the  Law  of  Order  19 

absurd  little  freshman  cap.  Next  she  made  up  her 
mind  that  he  was  taller,  then  thinner.  But  after  all, 
she  decided  finally,  it  was  the  way  he  held  his  head. 
He  was  tanned.  His  expression  was  not  the  same. 
Clear-eyed,  facile-featured,  smiling,  all  the  mists  of 
his  sulky  discontent  had  vanished. 

His  self-possession  positively  staggered  her.  He 
kissed  her  with  what  was  for  Ernest  shameless  open- 
ness. He  flagged  one  expressman,  ordered  him  to 
take  the  box  to  his  room,  flagged  another,  ordered 
him  to  take  Mrs.  Martin's  trunk  to  the  carriage 
which  he  had  in  waiting,  handed  his  mother  into 
that  vehicle  and  ordered  the  driver  to  "  beat  it  " 
to  the  Princeton  Inn. 

There,  he  had  engaged  a  comfortable  room  and 
bath,  overlooking  a  green  vista  of  the  pretty  town. 

"  Say,  Mrs.  Martin,"  he  remarked  suddenly, 
"  that  new  suit  is  a  pippin.  Haven't  I  always  told 
you  you  were  a  looker !  I've  met  a  lot  of  the  fellers' 
mothers  and  there  isn't  one  of  them  that's  a  marker 
for  you." 

Ernest  dined  with  his  mother  that  night.  He 
spent  that  evening  with  her.  The  next  morning  he 
breakfasted  with  her.  The  following  noon  he 
lunched  with  her.  And  between  dinner  and  his  de- 
parture, he  told  her  all  the  things  that  his  letter  had 
left  out  and,  between  breakfast  and  lunch,  he  piloted 
her  all  over  the  town.  Mrs.  Martin  went  patiently 
from  one  beautiful  ivy-hung  gray  building  to  an- 
other. She  lingered  in  old  Nassau  long  enough  to 
satisfy  even  Ernest.     Nobody  could  have  guessed 


20  Ernest  and  the  Law  of  Order 

from  her  calm  demeanor  that  mentally  she  boiled. 
For  it  seemed  to  her  that  the  time  to  visit  Ernest's 
room  would  never  come.  When  at  length  they  left 
the  Inn,  Mrs.  Martin  carried  a  bundle.  The  ab- 
sorbed Ernest,  still  talking  at  an  impassioned  pace, 
did  not  notice  it.  Mrs.  Martin  was  glad  of  that. 
She  hated  to  confess  to  him  that,  unbeknown  to 
Phoebe,  she  had  tucked  into  her  trunk  an  old  morn- 
ing-dress and  a  cake  of  kitchen  soap.  For  it  was 
her  intention,  the  moment  she  got  behind  locked 
doors  in  Ernest's  room,  to  clean  it  up.  Experience 
had  taught  her  what  the  bureau  drawers  would  be 
like.  And  as  for  the  closet,  Mrs.  Martin  shuddered. 
It  was  even  possible  that  she  would  have  to  do  some 
washing  for  him. 

The  house,  a  comfortable-looking  cottage,  much 
gabled  and  bay-windowed,  was  one  of  many  that, 
Ernest  explained,  were  all  given  over  to  dormitory 
purposes.  As  they  entered,  a  woman  emerged  from 
a  downstairs  room. 

11  This  is  Miss  Head,  mother,"  Ernest  said,  "  my 
mother,  Mrs.  Martin,  Miss  Head." 

Mrs.  Martin  braced  herself  for  the  long  string  of 
complaints  that  Miss  Head  would  present.  But  that 
lady,  a  stern-faced,  black-mustached  spinster,  only 
smiled  pleasantly  and  murmured  conventional  words 
of  welcome. 

"  She's  awfully  good  when  you're  sick  or  any- 
thing," Ernest  explained  in  a  stage-whisper  on  the 
stairs.  "  Gee,  but  ain't  she  the  strict  one,  though! 
Most  of  the  fellows  are  afraid  of  their  life  of  her. 


Ernest  and  the  Law  of  Order  21 

Now  look  out  for  this  top  step,  mother.  Every- 
body stumbles  here — they  always  think  there's  one 
more.  I'll  open  the  door  in  a  jiff,  then  there'll  be 
light  enough." 

Mrs.  Martin  heard  him  fumbling  with  the  key. 
Again  she  shivered  inwardly.  How  she  dreaded 
that  first  sight  of  Ernest's  room ! 

The  door  swung  back.  A  great  blaze  of  light 
illumined  the  dark  hall.  Dazzled  she  stepped 
through  the  doorway.  Gradually  her  eyes  accus- 
tomed themselves  to  the  light.    She  gazed  about  her. 

The  room  was  large,  airy,  sunny.  In  itself,  it 
was  furnished  with  almost  a  military  simplicity — 
and  it  was  in  perfect  order!  The  bureau  drawers 
were  all  closed.  The  top  of  the  chiffonier  held 
Ernest's  few  toilet  articles,  neatly  disposed.  The 
closet  door  was  ajar.  Through  it  she  caught 
glimpses  of  his  clothes  neatly  suspended  on  hangers 
from  a  long  central  rod. 

"  Sit  there,  mother!  "  Ernest  commanded,  pulling 
the  Morris  chair  out  of  the  sunlight.  "  If  you  don't 
mind,  I'm  going  to  unpack  the  box  you  brought  on 
so's  to  get  it  out  of  the  way — I  haven't  had  time 
yet." 

Mrs.  Martin  sat  down  mechanically.  And  me- 
chanically she  watched  her  son. 

Ernest  materialized  a  hammer  and  screw-driver 
from  somewhere  and  attacked  the  box.  For  an 
hour  he  whipped  about  the  room,  reducing  confusion 
to  order.  As  soon  as  anything  came  out  of  the  box 
that  belonged  in  the  bureau,  it  was  folded  and  added 


22  Ernest  and  the  Law  of  Order 

to  one  of  the  neat  piles  in  the  drawers.  As  soon 
as  anything  came  out  that  belonged  in  the  closet, 
he  shook  and  brushed  it,  placed  it  on  a  hanger,  an- 
nexed it  to  the  orderly  file  in  the  closet. 

M  I  put  everything  away  as  fast  as  I  take  it  off 
now,  mother,"  he  explained;  "  I  find  that's  the  only 
way  to  keep  things  shipshape  here.  Besides,  it  saves 
Miss  Head  doing  it.  Some  of  the  fellows  leave 
everything  about.  Maybe  they  don't  catch  it, 
though,  when  they  do !  " 

He  pushed  the  empty  box  inside  the  closet.  He 
gathered  up  every  shred  of  the  tissue  paper  that 
Mrs.  Martin  had  used  for  wrapping  and  threw  it 
into  the  waste  basket.  He  brought  in  a  little  dust- 
pan from  the  hall  and  brushed  up  the  splinters  and 
excelsior. 

"  I'm  going  to  make  you  a  cup  of  chocolate  now," 
he  announced. 

From  a  little  curtained  shelf,  he  brought  out  a 
tiny  alcohol  lamp,  a  tin  of  chocolate,  a  box  of 
crackers. 

"  I  make  some  every  afternoon  for  myself  ever 
since  we  broke  training — I  get  so  hungry.  You 
know  how  I  used  to  buy  cakes  and  pies  and  all  kinds 
of  baker's  truck.  Well,  Sandy  Williston  told  me 
there  was  nothing  to  that.  And  he  got  me  to  buy 
this  alcohol  lamp.    He's  got  one  like  it." 

After  they  had  drunk  the  chocolate,  Ernest 
washed  the  dishes  and  put  them  away.  During  the 
process,  he  again  relapsed  into  autobiography. 
"  You  see,  mother,  when  I  first  came  here,  I  used 


Ernest  and  the  Law  of  Order  23 

to  be  awful  careless  about  making  extra  work  for 
Miss  Head.  And  then  she  spoke  to  me  once  or 
twice  about  it,  and  I  made  up  my  mind  it  was  my 
play  to  be  more  careful.  You  see,  she  does  every 
bit  of  the  chamberwork  in  this  place,  and  I  tell  you 
she  has  to  hustle.  And  then  there  was  something 
I  read  in  '  Don  Quixote  '  about  that  time  that  I 
thought  was  great.  Cervantes  says  that  one  test  of 
a  gentleman  is  the  way  he  treats  servants  or  any 
person  who's  placed  in  an  inferior  position.  He 
says  it's  all  an  accident  of  birth,  anyway;  they  might 
be  in  our  place  or  we  in  theirs,  and  it's  up  to  us 
to  treat  them  with  peculiar  consideration  from  the 
very  fact  that  they  can't  complain.  If  you  speak 
harshly  to  a  servant,  it's  exactly  as  if  you  hit  some- 
body whose  arms  are  tied  behind  him.  Don't  you 
think  that's  a  remarkable  way  of  putting  it?  I  never 
saw  it  quite  in  that  light  before." 

Mrs.  Martin  did  not  answer.    She  only  stared. 

His  dish-washing  over,  Ernest  got  out  of  his 
jersey.  Talking  all  the  time,  he  bustled  in  and  out, 
gathering  things  to  take  to  the  bathroom.  And  he 
continued  to  shout  to  her  over  the  din  of  the  run- 
ning water  and  the  splash  of  his  bathing.  Mrs. 
Martin  listened  in  silence.    Outside  twilight  settled. 

Suddenly  the  room  blazed  white.  Ernest,  return- 
ing, all  dressed,  had  snapped  a  white  thread  of 
flame  into  the  electric  bulb.  "  Gee,  I  forgot  to  light 
up  for  you,"  he  said  apologetically. 

Mrs.  Martin  watched  him  intently  as  he  walked 
over  to  the  chiffonier.    He  looked  at  himself  in  the 


24  Ernest  and  the  Law  of  Order 

mirror  there,  laughed,  bounded  suddenly  over  to 
his  mother's  side  and  knelt  at  her  feet. 

"  Mother,"  he  said,  presenting  her  with  a  comb, 
"  I'm  glad  you're  here  for  more  reasons  than  I  can 
count.  But  one  very  particular  one  is  that  now  my 
hair  will  be  parted  straight.  I  wish  you  could  see 
the  crazy  way  I  do  it.  I  go  by  my  nose  and  my 
nose  is  crooked.  I  bet  when  I'm  ninety  I'll  still  be 
running  to  you  to  do  it  for  me." 

He  dropped  his  head.  But  as  his  mother  did  not 
speak,  he  raised  it.  "  Why,  mother,"  he  said  in 
alarm,  "  what's  the  matter?  " 

"  Oh,  Ernie!  "  Mrs.  Martin  said,  "  oh,  Ernie!  I 
see  now  I'm  a  very  selfish  woman  for  being  so  rebel- 
lious about  your  coming  here.  It  wasn't  that  I 
didn't  want  you  to  go  away  from  home.  I  see  that 
now.  Way  down  in  my  secret  heart,  I  wanted  to 
keep  you  dependent  on  me.  But  you're  a  man  now. 
I  can't  ever  do  anything  more  for  you.  And  I'm 
glad.  But  I  guess  in  the  future  you'll  have  to  take 
care  of  me." 

Perhaps  Ernest's  first  long  stay  away  from  home 
had  taught  him  something  of  his  mother's  heart. 
At  any  rate,  he  kissed  her  with  a  tenderness  he  had 
never  before  shown.  And  he  continued  to  pat  her 
gently  as  she  wept  out  on  his  shoulder  the  tears  that 
healed  the  bruise  of  his  absence. 


CHAPTER  II 
PHOEBE  AND  THE  LITTLE  BLIND  GOD 

FROM  Thanksgiving  to  Christmas  of  the  year 
that  Ernest  went  to  college  was  a  very  happy 
month  for  Mrs.  Martin.  Her  week's  visit  to  Prince- 
ton, midway  in  November,  had  dissipated  her  great 
fear  that  her  son  was  incapable  of  taking  care  of 
himself.  She  came  back  refreshed  in  body  and  tri- 
umphant in  spirit. 

In  the  meantime,  Phoebe's  solitary  week  of  house- 
keeping seemed  to  have  established  the  house  as  a 
rendezvous  for  the  young  people  of  Maywood. 
And,  indeed,  the  social  tide  had  been  setting  in  their 
direction  for  a  long  time.  It  was  not  occasional 
formal  entertaining,  so  much  as  constant  impromptu 
hospitality,  that  had  accomplished  this  for  the  Mar- 
tins. Nobody  enjoyed  it  more  than  Mrs.  Martin; 
except  perhaps  Mr.  Martin,  who  visibly  grew 
younger  in  this  seething  flood  of  gayety. 

But  Mrs.  Martin  was  one  who  enjoyed  the  calms 
of  life  with  a  weather-eye  always  open  for  its  storms. 
And  so,  perhaps,  she  was  the  quietest  of  them  all 
when  the  expected  unexpected  happened.  Two  days 
after  Christmas,  Phoebe  stepped  from  Tug's  auto- 
mobile just  as  he  started  down  the  drive.  She  landed 
on  her  feet,  but  in  a  queer  twisted  heap.    She  arose 

25 


26        Phoebe  and  the  Little  Blind  God 

immediately.  At  the  first  step,  however,  she  turned 
pale.  At  the  second  she  swayed.  And  when  the 
alarmed  Tug  sprang  to  her  side,  she  fainted  quietly 
in  his  arms. 

Dr.  Bush  pronounced  the  case  compound  fracture 
of  the  ankle.  "  And  it  all  depends  on  how  quiet  you 
keep  whether  you  walk  at  the  end  of  one  month  or 
three,"  he  said. 

Phoebe  took  the  prospect  of  imprisonment  with 
the  philosophic  fortitude  which,  in  view  of  her  beat- 
ing energy,  was  always  so  great  a  surprise  to  her 
mother.  She  affected  to  find  its  greatest  deprivation 
her  inability  to  wear  the  high-heeled  footwear  that 
had  always  been  her  passion  and  to  which  Dr.  Bush 
imputed  the  whole  accident. 

"  You'll  wear  heelless  slippers  for  one  month  after 
you  get  up,  young  woman/'  he  scolded,  "  and  if  I 
have  my  way,  you'll  never  put  on  another  pair  of 
those  high-heel  abominations  again." 

It  was  a  day  or  two  after  the  accident  that  Pro- 
fessor Hazeltine  called.  Into  the  feverish  atmos- 
phere of  a  house  gradually  adjusting  itself  to  the 
abnormal,  he  brought  quiet  and  calm.  Both  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Martin  were  favorably  impressed  with 
him.  Indeed,  that  very  evening  he  gave  them  all 
their  first  care-free  moment  in  a  semi-jocose  lecture 
on  the  vari-colored  gems,  both  precious  and  semi- 
precious, which  it  was  his  pleasure  to  carry,  unset,  in 
his  pocket. 

The  letter  of  introduction  which  he  bore  from 
Power  Tyler,  a  classmate  of  Mr.  Martin's  at  Har- 


Phoebe  and  the  Little  Blind  God        27 

vard,  stated  that  he  was  a  professor  at  the  Uni- 
versity of  Winona,  an  authority  on  romance  lan- 
guages and  literatures,  and  author  of  two  able  mono- 
graphs. A  supplementary  and  more  gossipy  letter 
volunteered  the  information  that  he  was  a  person 
of  great  social  charm,  that  the  "  squaws  "  (Winona 
was  co-educational)  invariably  fell  in  love  with  him, 
that  in  addition  to  his  salary,  he  was  a  person  of 
modest  private  means.  He  had  come  East  to  spend 
his  sabbatical  year  in  research  work,  partly  at  Cam- 
bridge, Massachusetts,  and  partly  at  Cambridge, 
England. 

The  visit  which  Mrs.  Martin  immediately  asked 
him  to  make  stretched,  at  her  own  request,  from 
over  Sunday  to  a  week,  from  ten  days  to  a  fortnight. 
Professor  Hazeltine  steadily  reinforced  their  first 
impression  of  him.  It  seemed  that  he  was  equally 
pleased  with  them;  for,  before  his  hosts  could  again 
lengthen  his  visit,  he  himself  proposed  that  he  stay 
on  for  a  month  or  two  as  a  "  paying  guest."  This 
proposition  affronted  every  hospitable  instinct  of  the 
Martin  family.  But  Professor  Hazeltine  threatened 
to  leave  if  some  such  self-respecting  arrangement 
were  not  made  immediately. 

"  Fd  really  admire  to  have  him  here,"  Mrs.  Mar- 
tin said  to  Mr.  Martin.  "  The  house  has  been  so 
quiet  with  Phoebe  laid  up,  I  declare  it  seems  good 
to  hear  laughing  and  talking  once  more." 

11  I  don't  see  the  slightest  objection  to  it,"  Mr. 
Martin  answered,  "  as  long  as  you're  pleased.  And 
then  again,  it  isn't  as  if  we  were  taking  him  in  per- 


28        Phoebe  and  the  Little  Blind  God 

manently.  It'll  only  be  a  month  or  two  ...  if 
he's  going  abroad  in  the  spring." 

Phoebe  was  the  only  one  to  object  to  this  plan. 

"  Of  course  he's  an  interesting  talker  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing,"  she  said.  "  But  I  think  he's  awfully 
high-brow.  It  seems  to  me  to  be  pretty  pokey  to 
have  him  round  all  the  time." 

"  Well,"  Mrs.  Martin  said,  "  I  look  at  it  in  this 
way.  Of  course  everybody's  calling  on  you  now 
because  they're  so  sorry  for  you.  But  that's  bound 
to  let  up  after  a  while.  There'll  be  plenty  of  nights 
— you  mark  my  words — when  they'll  have  other 
engagements.  It  will  be  real  pleasant,  I  think,  to 
have  somebody  as  entertaining  as  Professor  Hazel- 
tine  around.  You  haven't  really  talked  with  him 
yet,  Phoebe.  I  consider  he's  a  very  gifted  man — 
and  such  perfect  manners,  so  quiet  and  self-effacing." 

"  Oh,  he's  clever  enough,"  Phoebe  assented. 
"  He's  a  perfect  shark  when  it  comes  to  the  lan- 
guages. But  I  don't  think  he's  so  very  self-effacing. 
Not  that  he  asserts  himself,  either.  But,  if  you 
notice,  when  people  meet  him  they  don't  seem  to 
pay  the  slightest  attention  to  him  at  first.  It's  almost 
as  if  he  wasn't  there.  Then  all  of  a  sudden  he's 
there  with  a  capital  T  and  they  all  seem  to  get  on 
to  the  fact  that  he's  somebody." 

11  It's  because  he's  so  short,"  Mrs.  Martin  said. 
11  It's  a  dreadful  pity  he  wasn't  an  inch  or  two 
taller.  And  yet  I  don't  know  as  that's  it,  after  all. 
I  never  saw  a  short  man  with  so  much  presence. 
Somehow  you  always  think  of  him    as  tall.     He 


Phoebe  and  the  Little  Blind  God        29 

carries  himself  just  as  if  he  was  a  giant.  I  guess 
he's  got  what  people  call  personality.  I'm  surprised 
at  you,  Phoebe,  for  not  enjoying  him  more." 

"  Well,  mother,"  Phoebe  said  analytically,  "  it's 
a  curious  thing  about  me.  I  don't  like  boys  at  all 
and  yet  men  over  twenty-five — or  twenty-eight, 
maybe — don't  interest  me  so  very  much,  either.  I 
think  life's  a  very  queer  thing.  I  don't  see-  what 
there  is  to  live  for  after  you're  thirty.  Did  you 
notice  any  difference,  mother?  " 

Mrs.  Martin  reflected,  the  wrinkle  in  her  brow 
playing  free.  "  Well,  I've  always  been  so  busy," 
she  answered  without  conscious  sarcasm,  "  that  I  de- 
clare it's  never  entered  my  head  to  think  of  it." 

"  Well,  it  has  entered  mine,"  Phoebe  said  darkly. 
"  I  think  of  it  all  the  time.  I've  just  about  made 
up  my  mind  that  everybody  ought  to  commit  suicide 
on  his  thirtieth  birthday." 

The  following  day  Professor  Hazeltine  came  to 
the  Martin  house  for  good.  For  a  week,  however, 
the  Martins  saw  almost  nothing  of  him;  he  was  too 
busy  following  up  various  social  and  academic  af- 
filiations. Dinner-parties  seemed  to  take  up  all  his 
evenings,  dinner  calls  all  his  afternoons.  In  the 
meantime,  Mrs.  Martin  found  herself  constantly 
praising  him  to  her  disdainful  daughter.  Then,  sud- 
denly, her  prophecy  in  regard  to  him  fulfilled  itself. 
The  annual  dance  of  the  Maywood  High  School 
swept  away  all  the  young  people.  An  evening  of 
complete  loneliness  threatened  Phoebe.  In  despera- 
tion, she  opened  her  first  real  conversation  with  their 


30       Phoebe  and  the  Little  Blind  God 

guest.  Beginning  loftily  with  the  Florence  which 
she  professed  to  "  adore,"  it  went  to  the  Siena  which 
she  affected  to  deprecate — and  stayed  there  for  the 
rest  of  the  evening.  Professor  Hazeltine  had  spe- 
cialized in  Sienese  history  and  art. 

"  He  is  an  interesting  man,"  Phoebe  said  that 
night  after  her  father  carried  her  up  to  her  room, 
and  while  her  mother  still  lingered,  getting  her  ready 
for  the  night.  "  There's  no  doubt  about  that.  And 
the  way  he's  worked!  And  he  makes  the  most  of 
every  little  thing.  Why,  I'd  got  the  idea  that  he 
had  lived  abroad  for  long  spells  at  a  time.  But 
it  seems  he  hasn't.  I  pinned  him  down  to-night 
and  he  admitted  that  he'd  only  been  once — his  last 
sabbatical  year,  seven  years  ago.  But  you  see  he 
was  all  loaded  up  with  facts  before  he  went.  Why, 
it  seems  to  me  as  if  I  hadn't  seen  a  thing  that  was 
really  worth  while,  when  I  listen  to  him.  I  think 
he's  quite  good-looking,  too,  when  he  gets  warmed 
up.     How  old  should  you  say  he  was,  mother?  " 

"Well,  it's  hard  telling,"  Mrs.  Martin  replied 
cautiously.  "  I  wouldn't  be  surprised  if  he  looked  a 
great  deal  younger  than  he  really  was.  You  see, 
he  isn't  gray  or  bald  and  he  keeps  himself  clean- 
shaven. His  figure  is  very  youthful,  too,  and  he 
dresses — he  always  looks  as  if  he'd  come  out  of  the 
top  drawer.  I  never  saw  a  man  have  so  much 
laundry." 

"  I  love  his  ties,"  Phoebe  interjected,  "  and  his 
scarfpins  are  in  perfect  taste.  Isn't  that  green  jade 
a  dandy?  " 


Phoebe  and  the  Little  Blind  God        31 

"  He  doesn't  look  a  day  over  forty  and  yet  his 
neck  is  quite  old.  That's  why  he  wears  his  hair 
a  little  long.  I  shouldn't  be  surprised,"  Mrs.  Mar- 
tin concluded,  "  if  he  was  between  forty-five  and 
fifty." 

"Dear  me,  that's  almost  venerable,  isn't  it?" 
Phoebe  said  pityingly.  "  Mother,  will  you  let  Flora 
go  down  to  the  Library  for  me  to-morrow?  " 

"  Of  course,"  Mrs.  Martin  said  heartily.  She 
observed  with  approval  that  the  list  of  books  which 
Phoebe  handed  her  the  next  day  related  entirely  to 
Italian  history.  And  that  afternoon,  when  she  re- 
turned from  a  committee  meeting,  she  was  delighted 
to  find  Professor  Hazeltine  talking  with  Phoebe 
again.  Mrs.  Martin  had  never  seen  her  daughter 
look  more  pretty.  Restless  movement  of  her  head 
among  the  couch-cushions  had  frayed  her  gold- 
flecked  brown  hair  into  a  fringe  that  ran  down  her 
forehead,  sprayed  over  her  ears,  and  made  little 
whorls  and  spirals  and  claws  of  light  in  her  neck. 
This  confusion  of  hair  reduced  her  aspect,  lately 
grown  so  young-ladylike,  almost  to  childhood. 

Professor  Hazeltine  was  similarly  transformed. 

He  was  a  man  who,  on  snap-judgment,  Mrs. 
Martin  would  have  described  as  ordinary-looking. 
At  first  glance,  his  pale,  pasty,  pear-shaped  face 
seemed  but  an  insignificant  pendant  to  a  shock  of 
darkish-drab  hair,  his  small  irregular  features  but 
spots  of  contour  that  accented  a  general  weakness 
of  composition.  But  when  he  talked — as  now — this 
impression  wore  away.     A  white-hot  interior  fire 


32        Phoebe  and  the  Little  Blind  God 

burned  through  these  neutral  surfaces.  The  deter- 
mined, slit-like  mouth  showed  his  fine  white  teeth 
in  a  frequent  pleasantly-flashing  smile.  His  eyes, 
indeterminately  yellow  or  gray  and  normally  dull, 
positively  gleamed. 

14  Oh,  mother,  what  do  you  think!"  Phoebe 
greeted  her,  "  Professor  Hazeltine  has  offered  to 
teach  me  Italian.  He  says  it's  a  perfect  snap  for 
anybody  who's  had  Latin.  And  then,  later,  if  I  feel 
like  it,  we're  going  to  take  up  Dante.  Isn't  that  the 
greatest  fun?  " 

14  I  think  it  will  be  lovely,"  Mrs.  Martin  said 
cordially.  l<  Professor  Hazeltine,  I  can't  tell  you 
how  obliged  Mr.  Martin  and  I  are  for  the  trouble 
you've  taken  to  amuse  our  little  girl." 

u  Dear  lady,"  Professor  Hazeltine  said  gallantly, 
14  far  from  being  a  trouble,  it's  a  pleasure — I  assure 
you." 

Professor  Hazeltine  ordered  the  necessary  books 
by  telephone  that  very  afternoon.  In  a  day  or  two 
the  lessons  were  well  under  way.  Phoebe  fell  upon 
this  new  mental  exercise  with  the  energy  of  a  being 
whose  physical  powers  are  in  temporary  inhibition. 
She  studied  as  she  had  never  studied  before.  Their 
work  fell  into  the  program  that  Professor  Hazel- 
tine's  hours  demanded.  Before  leaving  in  the  morn- 
ing, he  gave  Phoebe  a  lesson.  During  the  middle 
of  the  day,  Phoebe  toiled  alone  at  her  exercises  and 
translations.  Late  in  the  afternoon,  Professor 
Hazeltine  went  over  her  work  with  her.  Professor 
Hazeltine  peremptorily  forbade  any  study  at  night, 


Phoebe  and  the  Little  Blind  God        33 

after  a  day  so  concentrated.  And  so,  the  more  to 
fill  his  pupil's  vacant  hours,  he  inducted  her  into 
the  mysteries  of  chess.  The  Italian  lessons  de- 
manded so  many  books  and  so  much  elbow-room 
that  merely  for  the  sake  of  convenience  teacher  and 
pupil  repaired  to  the  big  ping-pong  table  in  the 
Playroom.  Later,  as  they  found  alien  conversation 
distracting,  chess-games  were  also  removed  thither. 

11  How  kind  Professor  Hazeltine  is,"  Mrs.  Mar- 
tin iterated  and  reiterated  to  Mr.  Martin. 

And  yet  at  the  same  time  she  admitted  to  herself 
first  and  to  her  husband  last  that  she  did  not  enjoy 
Professor  Hazeltine  quite  so  much,  now  that  their 
relations  were  financial.  As  was  natural,  he  had  be- 
come more  independent.  But  in  addition,  his  atti- 
tude had  acquired  a  subtle  air  of  domination.  "  He 
has  what  I  call  Sunday  manners,"  Mrs.  Martin  said, 
"  and  he  doesn't  put  them  on  for  everybody.  He's 
not  a  snob  exactly.  Because  it  isn't  the  money  that 
people  have  that  makes  the  difference,  it's  more 
whether  they're  smart  or  not.     I  don't  mean  that 

exactly "    Mrs.  Martin,  beating  helplessly  about 

in  the  mazes  of  an  alien  psychology,  hesitated,  and 
came  to  a  full  stop. 

"  He's  an  intellectual  snob."  Mr.  Martin's 
greater  verbal  equipment  supplied  the  phrase.  "  No, 
I  don't  enjoy  him  so  much  as  I  did.  Sometimes  I 
think  his  manner  is  quite  offensive  to  people  who 
drop  in.  I  confess  if  it  wasn't  making  it  so  much 
easier  for  Phoebe  I  don't  think  I'd  have  him  in  the 
house  any  longer.    But  then  it's  only  a  month  more." 


34        Phoebe  and  the  Little  Blind  God 

14  It  doesn't  pay  to  live  with  people,"  Mrs.  Mar- 
tin said.  "  YouVe  wintered  and  summered  your 
old  friends  and  you  know  just  what  to  expect  of 
them.  But  what  when  it  comes  to  new  ones — well, 
you  most  always  lose  the  friendship  if  you  get  under 
the  same  roof  with  them.  I  must  say,  though,  that 
Phoebe's  standing  being  tied  to  the  house  with  more 
patience  than  I've  ever  given  her  credit  for.  The 
only  thing  that  seems  to  worry  her  is  that  she  can't 
wear  any  of  those  high-heeled  shoes  she's  collected. 
She  hates  those  flat  things." 

And  in  point  of  fact,  although  all  the  young  people 
except  Tug  had  stopped  coming  to  the  house,  Mrs. 
Martin  remained  blindly  unconscious  of  the  way 
things  were  going.  Of  all  people,  Ernest,  home 
from  Princeton  on  a  flying  visit,  let  drop  the  remark 
that  first  unleashed  the  dogs  of  suspicion. 

"  Say,  mother,"  he  said,  "  what's  Phoebe  spend- 
ing all  her  time  with  that  old  dope  for?  I  think 
he's  an  awful  piece  of  work.  I  should  think  she  had 
a  crush  on  him.  Molly  Tate  told  me  that  none  of 
the  girls  had  been  to  the  house  for  three  weeks.  I 
asked  her  about  it  and  she  said  the  girls  said  it  was 
no  fun  coming  here  any  more.  If  they  came  in  the 
morning  or  the  afternoon,  they  interrupted  a  lesson, 
and  if  they  came  at  night  they  interrupted  a  chess 
game.  Phoebe  told  me  that  he'd  put  off  his  trip  to 
Europe  for  a  month  or  two." 

44  Ernie,"  Mrs.  Martin  said  severely,  "  I  never 
listened  to  such  nonsense  in  my  life.  It  displeases  me 
very  much  to  hear  you  talk  like  that.     Professor 


Phoebe  and  the  Little  Blind  God        35 

Hazeltine  has  done  a  lot  to  entertain  Phoebe,  and 
your  father  and  I  feel  under  obligations  to  him." 

But  notwithstanding  this  rebuke,  Ernest's  remark 
took  instant  root  in  his  mother's  mind.  By  the  next 
morning  it  had  sprouted,  had  grown  a  flourishing 
plant  of  distrust.  In  regard  to  Professor  Hazeltine, 
she  had  one  of  those  periods  of  complete  mental 
clearing  up  which  we  often  delay  as  long  as  possible 
in  the  case  of  a  prepossessing  new  friend,  especially 
when  he  is  our  own  protege.  She  admitted  frankly 
that  there  were  some  things  about  him  that  she  now 
actually  detested.  He  was  not  at  all  the  simple, 
genial  person  that  he  appeared  on  the  surface.  She 
had  seen  for  a  long  time  that  he  hated  children, 
although  he  did  his  best  to  conceal  it.  Mrs.  Martin 
now  let  the  suspicion  grow  to  a  certainty  that  it 
irritated  him  when  little  Gracie  Seaver  came  over 
every  Saturday  afternoon  to  hear  the  fairy-tales 
which  Phoebe  so  delighted  to  read  to  her.  Making 
another  intuitional  leap  into  the  dark,  Mrs.  Martin 
realized  suddenly  that  he  disliked  particularly  the 
people  who  liked  Phoebe — Molly  Tate,  Fonnie 
Marsh,  and  Tug  Warburton.  That  is  to  say,  he 
was  at  his  social  worst  with  them.  Indeed,  as,  in 
the  light  of  Ernest's  remark,  she  ran  mentally  back 
over  the  last  six  weeks,  Mrs.  Martin  was  conscious 
of  seeing  many  things  for  the  first  time.  Little 
under-currents  that  she  had  not  noticed,  now  per- 
ceptibly roughened  the  smooth  stream  of  family  life. 
It  occurred  to  her,  for  instance,  that  neither  she  nor 
Mr.   Martin   ever  entered  the   Playroom  while   a 


36       Phoebe  and  the  Little  Blind  God 

lesson  was  in  progress.  And  it  came  to  her  with 
a  sudden  sick  sense  of  panic  that  it  was  not  because 
they  feared  to  interrupt  but  because,  subconsciously, 
they  knew  themselves  to  be  de  trop. 

From  above,  even  as  Mrs.  Martin  meditated, 
came  the  continuous  ripple  of  Phoebe's  infectious 
laughter.  With  a  determined  movement  of  her  arm, 
Mrs.  Martin  swept  up  her  sewing  and  marched  up 
to  the  Playroom. 

"  I  thought  I'd  come  to  see  how  the  Italian  was 
going,"  she  said,  quietly  seating  herself  at  the  table. 

Mrs.  Martin  stayed  through  the  entire  hour.  Her 
experiment  proved  much  to  her.  For  although  Pro- 
fessor Hazeltine  unloosed  his  most  exquisite  cour- 
tesies on  her,  the  lesson  proceeded  with  much  less 
laughter  than  usual  and  much  more  attention  to 
translation. 

u  Edward,"  she  said  that  night  to  Mr.  Martin, 
"  I'm  worried  about  something." 

"  Worried,"  Mr.  Martin  repeated,  "  about 
what?" 

"  Phoebe  and  Professor  Hazeltine." 

"  Phoebe  and  Professor  Hazeltine,"  Mr.  Martin 
repeated.  "  What  about  them?  Isn't  Phoebe  treat- 
ing him  right?    She  seems "    An  expression  on 

his  wife's  face  caught  him  and  he  studied  it.    "  Why, 

mother,  you  don't  mean Oh,  pshaw,  Bertha — 

Hazeltine's  nearly  as  old  as  I  am." 

"  He's  older.  But  that  doesn't  make  any  differ- 
ence to  a  girl  as  young  as  Phoebe,"  Mrs.  Martin 
said.    "  If  they  fall  in  love  with  an  older  man,  they 


Phoebe  and  the  Little  Blind  God        37 

think  there's  something  romantic  and  self-sacrificing 
about  marrying  him." 

"  But  even  suppose  Phoebe  did  get  a  little  infatu- 
ated/' Mr.  Martin  answered,  "  she'll  get  over  it. 
You  remember  Raikes,  mother.  Phoebe  was  crazy 
about  him  for  a  while." 

"This  is  different,"  Mrs.  Martin  dissented. 
"  That  was  only  one  of  those  infatuations  for  actors 
that  all  girls  have.  Besides  she  got  no  encourage- 
ment. Phoebe  bored  Mr.  Raikes.  He  never  spoke 
to  her  unless  he  had  to.  She  talked  about  Mr. 
Raikes  all  the  time.  She  doesn't  say  a  living  thing 
about  Professor  Hazeltine.  After  he's  gone,  she 
studies  like  anything  for  an  hour  or  so.  Then  she 
just  dreams  away  the  rest  of  the  day.  I  watched 
her  to-day — the  last  hour  before  he  came  back  she 
spent  looking  for  him  out  of  the  window." 

"  Well,  allowing  for  the  sake  of  argument  that 
Phoebe  has  got  a  little  infatuated  with  him,  Hazel- 
tine  never  would  see  it.  And  if  he  did,  it  would 
only  amuse  him." 

"  I  think  he's  in  love  with  Phoebe,"  Mrs.  Martin 
announced  quietly. 

11  Tchk!  "  Mr.  Martin  exclaimed,  and  "  Tchk!  " 
he  repeated  in  the  maximum  of  incredulity.  But  if 
experience  had  taught  Mr.  Martin  anything,  it  was 
that  his  wife's  intuitions  could  not  be  lightly  whiffed 
away.  "What  makes  you  think  so,  Bertha?"  he 
asked  patiently. 

11  I  don't  know  exactly,"  Mrs.  Martin  confessed. 
11 1  just  feel  it.    It's  one  of  those  ideas  that  the  mo- 


38        Phoebe  and  the  Little  Blind  God 

ment  you  suspect  it,  a  whole  lot  of  things  flash 
across  you  that  you've  noticed  without  thinking 
about  them — and  then  all  of  a  sudden  it  comes  over 
you  what  a  fool  you've  been.  He  looks  at  Phoebe 
all  the  time,  for  one  thing.  Not  that  I  blame  him 
for  that!"  Mrs.  Martin  permitted  herself  the 
luxury  of  one  of  her  rare  outbursts  of  praise.  "  For 
she's  the  most  beautiful  thing  I  ever  put  my  two 
eyes  on."  Then  as  if  something  in  her  husband's 
silence  alarmed  her,  "  Would  you  want  her  to  marry 
him,  father?  "  she  demanded. 

"  I'd  almost  rather  see  her  in  her  grave!  "  Mr. 
Martin  said  simply.  "  Well,  what's  to  be  done?" 
he  asked  after  an  interval  of  visible  mental  per- 
turbation. 

"  Well,  I've  thought  that  all  out,  too,"  Mrs.  Mar- 
tin said.  "  The  first  thing  is  to  get  Professor  Hazel- 
tine  out  of  the  house.  I  hate  to  think  of  doing  any- 
thing like  that.  But  we  don't  have  to  be  rude.  We 
can  use  having  company  as  an  excuse.  I'll  write 
to-morrow  and  invite  Cousin  Maria  Reade  to  come 
and  stay  with  us — she's  always  glad  of  a  chance  to 
visit  anywhere — her  income's  so  small." 

But  excellent  as  was  this  plan  of  Mrs.  Martin's, 
it  had  one  flaw — it  came  too  late.  For  even  as  they 
sat  gazing  at  each  other  in  that  satisfactory,  silent 
communication  which  is  the  special  privilege  of 
twenty-odd  years  of  matrimony,  Phoebe's  voice 
called  from  above.  "  Father,  mother,"  it  cooed, 
44  will  you  both  come  up  here  for  a  moment,  please?  " 

44  Dear  people,"  Professor  Hazeltine  began  the 


Phoebe  and  the  Little  Blind  God        39 

moment  they  entered  the  room,  "  I  took  the  liberty 
of  asking  your  daughter  to  call  you  up  here,  as  I 
wished  to  say  what  I  had  to  say  in  your  presence. 
She  has  just  done  me  the  honor  to  accept  my  hand 
in  marriage  and  I  am  now  performing  the  charming 
formality  of  asking  your  consent." 

In  the  scene  that  followed,  Mrs.  Martin  had  no 
share.  White,  limp,  shaking,  she  sank,  at  the  out- 
set, a  nerveless  heap,  into  the  Morris  chair.  Phoebe 
bore  a  part  almost  as  inconspicuous.  Pale  and  silent, 
too,  she  was  moveless  except  as  her  brilliant  eyes 
went  in  entreaty  to  her  father's  face  and  back  in 
pride  to  her  lover's.  Professor  Hazeltine  kept  him- 
self in  the  main  under  perfect  control.  Not  until 
the  end  did  that  high  pitch  of  geniality  which  he 
set  for  the  interview  begin  to  drop.  Mr.  Martin 
was  far  from  urbane.  He  might  be  blind  to  a  grow- 
ing situation;  he  could  show  plenty  of  firmness  when 
the  situation  broke.  His  first  and  last  answer  to 
Professor  Hazeltine's  request  was  a  peremptory, 
"  No." 

"  But,  my  dear  Mr.  Martin,"  their  guest  said  at 
last — and,  in  spite  of  an  obvious  effort  to  blanket  it, 
triumph  and  insolence  blared  in  his  tone — "  what 
have  you  to  say  about  it,  anyway?  Nobody  can 
make  this  decision  for  Phoebe.    And  she's  of  age?  " 

"  You're  right  there,"  Mr.  Martin  said.  "  She 
is  of  age.  But  if  I  know  my  daughter  at  all,  I  think 
I  can  say  that  she  won't  do  anything  that  I  abso- 
lutely forbid.  And  I  will  never  give  my  consent  to 
this  marriage.    It's  preposterous." 


40       Phoebe  and  the  Little  Blind  God 

But  at  this,  Phoebe  rallied  and  presented  to  her 
father  a  spirit  that  was  the  counterpart  of  his  own. 
"  I  don't  agree  to  all  that,  father,"  she  remonstrated. 
11  I'm  no  longer  a  child.  I'm  a  woman — you  said 
so,  yourself,  the  other  day.  I  won't  agree — I  can't 
agree  not  to  do  anything  without  your  consent.  But 
I  will  say  that  I  won't  do  anything  without  telling 
you  all  about  it  first.  Oh,  dearest  father,"  she  broke 
down  suddenly,  "  don't  think  that  I'm  doing  this 
blindfold.  I  have  lain  awake  nights  and  thought — 
and  prayed — to  find  out  what  was  right  to  do.  And 
I  know  my  mind  perfectly  now.  I  love  Professor 
Hazeltine.  He  is  the  only  man  in  the  world  for  me. 
When  he  first  proposed  to  me  ten  days  ago,  he 
warned  me  that  you  would  be  opposed  to  it  and 
he  begged  me  to  think  very  carefully  before  I  gave 
him  an  answer." 

M  Well,  can't  you  see  what  a  cur  he  was,"  Mr. 
Martin  said,  boiling  over,  "  not  to  come  to  us  first 
in  that  case?  I  will  ask  you,"  he  addressed  himself 
to  Professor  Hazeltine,  "  to  leave  my  house  to- 
morrow. 

"  And  he'll  never  enter  it  again,"  he  added  later 
to  his  wife — his  rage  still  at  fever  heat. 

But  Mrs.  Martin  had  regained  her  natural  tem- 
perate grip  on  things.  "  You  do  that,  Edward,"  she 
prophesied,  "  and  she'll  be  married  to  him  in  a 
month.  No,  let  him  come  and  go  as  he  pleases — 
you  don't  have  to  meet  him.  But  if  Phoebe's  going 
to  see  him,  let  her  see  him  under  her  father's  roof." 

The  next  day  Professor  Hazeltine  took  himself 


Phoebe  and  the  Little  Blind  God        41 

and  his  belongings  to  a  Boston  hotel.  He  no  longer 
broke  bread  with  the  Martin  family,  but  he  spent 
every  evening  alone  with  Phoebe  in  the  front  room. 
From  that  direction  came  no  longer  the  steady  ripple 
of  Phoebe's  mirth  but,  in  its  place,  the  continual  low 
murmur  of  voices.  Within  a  week,  Phoebe's  finger 
drooped  under  the  weight  of  a  huge  heart-shaped 
sapphire,  blazing  between  twin  diamonds. 

Mr.  Martin  supplemented  this  first  scene  by  a 
long  interview  with  his  daughter.  When  it  was 
over,  things  stood  exactly  as  if  it  had  never  been. 
After  three  sleepless  nights  and  much  against  her 
own  will  but  prodded  on  to  it  by  her  husband,  Mrs. 
Martin  had  a  long  talk  with  Phoebe  during  which 
she  told  Phoebe  exactly  what  she  thought  of  her 
fiance.  As  she  had  herself  anticipated,  its  effect  was 
to  make  Phoebe  more  strongly  his  defender,  to 
deflect  entirely  the  stream  of  her  daughter's  confi- 
dence. But  Mrs.  Martin  could  bear  Phoebe's  thinly- 
disguised  resentment  with  herself  much  more  easily 
than  her  breach  with  her  father.  For  though  there 
could  be  no  diminution  of  the  love  these  two  bore 
each  other — Phoebe  being  Phoebe  and  Mr.  Martin 
being  Mr.  Martin — their  friendship  seemed  to  have 
died.  They  met  only  at  meals.  Phoebe  made  a 
point  of  carrying  on  a  conversation  with  her  father. 
Her  father  made  a  point  of  responding  at  length  to 
any  opening.  But  their  talk  wandered  among  sub- 
jects carefully  general  and  impersonal.  There  were 
whole  evenings  when  Mr.  Martin  sat  silent  and  ab- 
stracted.   There  were  whole  days  when  Phoebe  lay 


42        Phoebe  and  the  Little  Blind  God 

silent.  Mrs.  Martin  herself  worked  frantically  for 
uncounted  hours  or  wandered  listlessly  about  the 
house,  a  bowed,  silent  figure. 

"  Oh,  I  can't  tell  you,  Edward,"  she  said  more 
than  once,  "  how  I  blame  myself  for  all  this!  It 
seems  to  me  now  that  I  ought  to  have  known  what 
kind  of  a  man  he  was  the  first  time  I  saw  him.  And 
yet,  when  you  come  down  to  it,  there's  nothing  you 
can  put  your  hand  on,  so's  a  girl  will  understand. 
If  he'd  only  drank  or  forged  or  was  a  bigamist! 
But  his  habits  are  good  as  far  as  I  can  see.  He's 
honorable  in  money-matters,  generous  to  a  fault. 
He's  as  dainty  about  his  clothes  as  any  woman.  In 
fact,  sometimes  I  think  he's  good,  not  because  he's 
naturally  fine,  but  because  he's  only  got  the  coldness 
of — of — well,  fastidiousness,  I  guess  you'd  call  it. 
Oh,  if  I'd  only  seen  it  coming,  I'd  have  sent  her 
away." 

"Why  not  try  that  now?"  Mr.  Martin  sug- 
gested, coming  out  of  an  interval  of  morose  medi- 
tation. 

"  No,  no,  no!"  Mrs.  Martin  almost  screamed, 
"  that  would  be  the  worst  thing  we  could  possibly  do. 
He'd  follow  her." 

11  He  doesn't  love  Phoebe,"  she  broke  out  fiercely 
one  night.  "  He  can't  love.  He's  as  cold  as  a  stone. 
You  know  how  he  carries  those  unset  gems  about  in 
his  pocket  and  how  he  likes  to  take  them  out  and 
look  at  them.  He  wants  to  own  Phoebe  for  the 
same  reason.  He  wants  to  look  at  her  and  think 
how  beautiful  she  is  and  that  he  owns  her.    And  he 


Phoebe  and  the  Little  Blind  God        43 

thinks  because  she's  so  young,  he  can  mold  her.  I'm 
not  so  sure  of  that,"  she  ended  with  a  touch  of 
triumph,  "  Phoebe's  got  a  will  and  a  mind  of  her 
own." 

But  in  open  contradiction  of  this  last  statement, 
she  added  a  week  later:  "  I  never  saw  a  girl  with  so 
little  spunk  as  Phoebe.  Why,  it's  just  as  if  she  was 
under  a  spell,  or  he'd  hypnotized  her.  She  hasn't 
an  idea  at  present  that  isn't  his.  She  treasures 
everything  he  says  and  she  just  lives  to  please  him. 
The  other  day  he  said  he  admired  a  woman's  hair  to 
be  done  in  a  net — like  some  pictures  he  spoke  of  in 
the  library  in  Siena.  Phoebe  sent  to  Boston  the 
moment  he  left  the  house  for  those  hair-nets  she's 
wearing  now.  She  isn't  half  so  pretty  with  a  net 
on.  It  holds  her  curls  down  flat  and  takes  all  the 
light  out  of  her  hair.  And  now  she's  having  Miss 
Symonds  make  her  a  dress  like  one  in  a  picture  of 
an  Italian  saint  that  he  gave  her  just  because  he 
likes  it.  She  can  just  manage  to  stand  up  long 
enough  to  have  it  tried  on — it's  a  horrid  dusty  color 
and  a  dreadful  pattern,  a  flat-looking,  shapeless  sort 
of  thing.  It  makes  her  look  ten  years  older.  She 
doesn't  wear  middies  any  longer  because  he  doesn't 
like  them.  And  what  she  doesn't  know  is  that  he 
hates  them  because  they  make  her  look  so  young. 
Oh,  when  he  marries  her,  he'll  make  her  dress  just 
the  way  he  wants.  He's  proud  that  he's  won  a  girl 
so  young.  At  the  same  time,  it's  gall  and  wormwood 
to  him  that  she  looks  so  much  younger  than  he. 
Why,  sometimes  he  looks  so  old  now." 


44       Phoebe  and  the  Little  Blind  God 

"  And,  oh,  Edward,"  she  wailed  at  a  later  period, 
11  it's  worse  even  than  I  thought.  Fve  known  for  a 
long  time  that  he  couldn't  stand  Molly  and  Fonnie 
and  Tug,  but  the  reason  is  he's  jealous — terribly 
jealous.  Why,  to-day  after  lunch,  Tug  came  over 
and  spent  the  afternoon  with  Phoebe.  He  was  tell- 
ing her  about  some  things  they  did  over  to  Harvard 
to  some  boys  they  were  initiating  into  the  D.K.E. 
and  Phoebe  was  nearly  dying  with  laughter — oh, 
and  Edward,  it  seemed  good  to  hear  the  poor  child 
laughing  once  more !  Well,  right  in  the  midst  of  it, 
Professor  Hazeltine  came.  While  he  was  taking 
his  things  off,  he  heard  Phoebe  carrying  on  upstairs. 
I  wish  you  could  have  seen  the  way  his  face  changed. 
His  mouth  set  like  a  trap  and  that  queer  light  came 
into  his  eyes — you  know — when  things  aren't  going 
the  way  he  wants  them — Edward,  he's  got  real  cat's 
eyes  at  those  times.  Well,  I  didn't  say  much  to  him 
— I  can't  talk  to  him  nowadays.  And  in  a  minute 
he  went  upstairs.  Tug  came  down  at  once — he 
never  stays  when  Hazeltine  is  here.  A  little  later, 
I  heard  Hazeltine  giving  Phoebe  the  greatest  dress- 
ing-down— I  couldn't  hear  what  he  said,  but  I  could 
tell  by  the  tone.  And  Phoebe  cried!  I  wish  you 
could  have  seen  the  way  her  eyes  looked  after  he  left. 
He's  the  kind  of  a  man  who,  if  he's  jealous,  would 
make  a  woman's  life  a  hell  on  earth.  He'll  always 
be  pulled  two  ways.  He'll  want  his  wife  to  be  a 
social  leader,  but  he'll  take  it  out  of  her  for  every 
bit  of  admiration  she  gets." 

"Well,  do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  a  girl  like 


Phoebe  and  the  Little  Blind  God        45 

Phoebe  will  stand  for  anything  like  that?  "  Mr. 
Martin  demanded. 

Mrs.  Martin  nodded  drearily.  "  She's  young 
enough  to  be  flattered  by  it,  even  when  it  hurts  her. 
Young  people  think  love  isn't  love  unless  there's 
some  jealousy  connected  with  it.  Isn't  there  some- 
thing we  can  do,  Edward?  "  she  begged  desperately. 

But  only  the  cold  comfort  of  her  own  words 
came  back  to  her.  "  We're  doing  all  we  can.  I 
could  forbid  him  the  house,  but  that  would  only 
mean  that  they'd  meet  outside." 

It  was  now  late  in  February.  Phoebe's  ankle  had 
begun  to  strengthen.  In  the  heelless  soft-leather 
shoes  that  Dr.  Bush  had  ordered,  she  was  now 
making  tentative  journeys  about  the  house,  carefully 
supported  by  her  fiance.  It  would  be  only  a  question 
of  a  few  days  before  she  would  be  able  to  go  out. 

11  She  says  she  can't  stand  this  much  longer,  Ed- 
ward," Mrs.  Martin  announced  stonily  one  night. 
"  She  says  at  first  she  thought  she'd  wait  a  year  or 
two,  but  now  she  thinks  she'll  be  married  in  June. 
Oh,  Edward,  I  can't  let  her  do  it.  I  carit.  Isn't 
there  something  you  can  do?  " 

"  Not  a  thing.  The  jig's  up.  Tell  her  if  she 
wants  a  quiet  wedding  with  only  the  family  present, 
she  can  be  married  at  home." 

"  She  says,"  Mrs.  Martin  brought  back  on  lips 
that  worked,  "  that  it  wouldn't  be  any  comfort  to 
her,  under  the  circumstances,  to  have  a  wedding. 
Just  as  soon  as  she's  able,  they'll  go  in  to  Boston  and 
be  married  by  a  minister  there  who's  a  friend  of  his." 


46        Phoebe  and  the  Little  Blind  God 

"  Very  well,"  Mr.  Martin  said. 

But  the  next  night  when  Mr.  Martin  came  home 
to  dinner,  there  was  a  different  spring  to  his  walk, 
a  look  faintly  suggestive  of  triumph  in  his  face. 
Mrs.  Martin  wondered  if  he  had  found  a  way  out  of 
the  maze  of  t^eir  unhappiness.  But  although  she 
met  his  eyes  with  a  mute,  wistful  questioning,  he 
volunteered  nothing,  and  she  asked  no  questions. 
Another  day  that  she  lived  through  by  a  system  of 
studying  the  clock  at  ten-minute  intervals,  and  he 
came  home,  a  white,  wearied,  languid  creature,  ut- 
terly spent  and  discouraged. 

11  Bertha,"  he  said  after  dinner.  "  I  was  the  hap- 
piest man  in  the  world  yesterday.  I  thought  I'd 
got  hold  of  something  that  would  stew  Hazeltine's 
goose.  A  woman  came  into  my  office.  Her  name 
was  Severin — Eugenia  Severin.  After  some  batting 
around  and  a  good  deal  of  sparring  for  an  opening, 
she  came  down  to  cases.  She  said  that  she'd  heard 
— she  didn't  say  how — that  Professor  Hazeltine  was 
paying  attention  to  my  daughter.  She  said  that  she 
couldn't  let  that  go  on  because  it  was  up  to  Hazel- 
tine  to  marry  her.  She  said  she  had  the  goods  on 
him  and  threatened  breach  of  promise.  Well,  at 
first  I  thought  it  was  a  simple  case  of  blackmail  until 
she  showed  me  a  page  of  Hazeltine's  handwriting 
and — and — the  long  and  short  of  it  was,  this  morn- 
ing she  left  a  wad  of  letters  with  me  and  asked  me 
to  read  them.  Well,  I  did  read  them,  you  bet,  every 
last  one.  And  I  guess  no  man  ever  hoped  harder 
to  get  it  on  another  man.     But  there  was  nothing 


Phoebe  and  the  Little  Blind  God        47 

to  it.  As  far  as  I  can  see,  he's  been  perfectly  square 
— and  it's  evident  from  the  letters  that  she  went  in- 
to it  with  her  eyes  open.  Anyway,  he  never  said  in 
writing  that  he'd  marry  her.  The  case  would 
last  about  three  minutes  in  court.  I  told  her  that. 
It  staggered  her,  but  she  seemed  to  trust  my 
judgment.  She  told  me  I  could  keep  the  letters 
for  a  week,  though,  and  do  anything  I  wished 
with  them.  I  know  what  she  wants  me  to  do,  all 
right.  Now,  mother,  I'll  admit  I  haven't  any  prin- 
ciples in  the  matter.  I'd  do  anything  to  beat  that 
cur.  But  I'll  be  guided  by  what  you  say.  What  do 
you  want?    It's  all  up  to  you." 

There  was  a  long  pause,  and  in  the  silence  Mrs. 
Martin  sat  like  a  petrified  thing.  She  came  out  of  it 
with  a  sigh  that  stirred  through  the  room  a  heavy 
gust  of  grief.  "  Well,  as  long  as  he's  been  fair  to 
this  Severin  woman,  I  guess  we  haven't  any  right  to 
show  his  letters  to  Phoebe.  I  wouldn't  feel  justified 
in  my  conscience  to  do  such  a  thing." 

"  Well,"  Mr.  Martin  exclaimed  in  a  voice  of 
despair,  "  I  give  you  women  up.  You  may  know 
why  you  act  the  way  you  do,  but  I  never  expect  to 
fathom  it." 

"  All  right,  I'll  tell  you  why  I  do  this  if  you  want 
!o  know,"  Mrs.  Martin  said  with  a  sudden  flash 
of  an  emotion  unusual  in  her.  "  When  you  first 
came  back  to  East  Wilton,  Edward  Martin,  after 
you'd  graduated  from  Harvard,  you  got  the  reputa- 
tion of  being  pretty  wild,  though  I  didn't  know  it. 
And  after  I  got  engaged  to  you,  that  old  Mrs.  Burn- 


48        Phoebe  and  the  Little  Blind  God 

ham,  who  lived  in  the  yellow  house  next  to  Uncle 
Henry's,  came  to  me  and  told  me  the  greatest  mess 
of  stuff  about  you.  Of  course  it  didn't  make  any  dif- 
ference and  I  never  said  a  word  about  it  to  you, 
but  at  the  same  time,"  Mrs.  Martin's  voice  thick- 
ened with  sudden  passion,  "  I've  never  thanked  her 
for  telling  me." 

"What  did  she  tell  you?"  Mr.  Martin  asked 
curiously. 

11  Never  you  mind,"  Mrs.  Martin  answered.  "  I 
guess  I  haven't  reached  my  time  of  life  without 
knowing  better  than  to  put  you  in  a  position  where 
you've  got  to  lie  to  me." 

"  Well — but — but  it  hasn't  seemed  to  occur  to 
you  that  I  might  not  have  to  lie,"  Mr.  Martin  re- 
marked after  what  was  visibly  a  silent  foray  into 
his  own  past. 

"  No,  it  hasn't! "  Mrs.  Martin  said  with  em- 
phasis. "  And  besides  I  know  this — although  it 
would  hurt  Phoebe  and  set  her  against  us,  it  wouldn't 
make  any  difference  in  the  long  run.  She'd  marry 
him  the  sooner.  What  did  that  Severin  woman  look 
like?" 

11  Very  good-looking,  I  call  her.  Big  and  tall — 
flashing  black  eyes — fine  figure." 

"How  old  was  she?" 

"  Oh,  thirty-five  or  forty — somewhere  along 
there.  Well,  mother,  I  guess,  as  far  as  Phoebe's 
concerned,  we've  thrown  away  our  last  shot." 

"  I  guess  we  have,  father." 

And  as  it  happened,  they  had.     A  week  later 


Phoebe  and  the  Little  Blind  God        49 

Phoebe  did  not  come  down  to  the  library  until  dinner 
was  over;  and  then  she  was  dressed  to  go  out.  She 
wore  the  long  mediaeval-looking  gown  that  added 
so  much  to  her  years  and  stature;  and,  over  it,  her 
long  dark  evening-coat.  New  gloves,  a  fresh  veil — 
she  was  cap-a-pie,  even  to  the  high-heeled  shoes  at 
which  Dr.  Bush  had  stormed  in  vain.  Her  face 
was  swollen  and  her  eyes  dull  over  reddened  pouches. 

"  I've  come  to  say  good-by,"  she  said.  "  I'm 
going  in  town  to  meet  Professor  Hazeltine  and  we 
shall  be  married  to-night.  We'll  board  in  Cam- 
bridge for  the  rest  of  his  stay  here.  I'll  come  out 
as  soon  as  you  want  to  see  me." 

Mrs.  Martin  did  not  remonstrate.  Neither  did 
she  weep.  It  is  highly  probable  that  Damocles  knew 
his  only  flash  of  happiness  after  his  fate  found  him, 
in  the  instant  that  the  sword  fell.  And  so  that  calm- 
ness, which  comes  when  the  expected  calamity  occurs, 
wrapped  Mrs.  Martin  in  its  serenity.  She  kissed 
her  daughter  and,  except  for  a  slight  twitching  of  his 
face,  Mr.  Martin  was  able  to  mimic  her  composure. 

Then  the  door  closed  and  Phoebe  was  gone. 

"  Well,  father,"  Mrs.  Martin  said — and  by  some 
miracle  of  woman  fortitude  she  smiled  at  the  broken 
man  opposite  her — "  it's  all  out  of  our  hands  now. 
We've  done  our  best  and " 

" we've  failed,"  Mr.  Martin  carried  it  on. 


"  But,  as  you  say,  we've  done  our  best."  He  tried 
to  smile,  but  he  gave  it  up.  "  I  don't  know  what  we 
bring  them  into  the  world  for,"  he  added  a  little 
later. 


50        Phoebe  and  the  Little  Blind  God 

11  Father,  you're  not  sorry  that  weVe  had 
Phoebe?  "  A  note  of  anxiety  seared  through  Mrs. 
Martin's  unnatural  calm.  It  was  as  though  she  felt 
that  she  had  failed  as  a  wife. 

Mr.  Martin  considered  this.  "  No,"  he  said, 
u  I'm  glad  we  had  her  if  only  for  this  little  while. 
It  seems  a  very  little  while,  though." 

That  was  the  only  verbal  interruption  to  the  even- 
ing. Aunt  Mary's  big  clock  called  a  sonorous  eight 
and  nine  and  ten  and  eleven.  Flora  went  out  the 
back  door  at  eight  and  returned  at  ten.  The  cat, 
coming  in  with  her,  propelled  its  big  black  bulk 
across  the  room  by  a  series  of  furry  arches  that  fol- 
lowed the  furniture.  Mikey,  the  fox-terrier,  man- 
handled her  for  a  while,  according  to  his  affectionate 
custom,  and  then  fell  into  a  snoring  snooze  on  the 
rug,  one  paw  about  her.  The  fire  kept  up  a  per- 
sistent, cheerful  crackle.  And  once  Julia,  the  second 
maid,  came  silently  in  and  fed  it.  Mrs.  Martin  sat 
at  one  side  of  the  table  counting  innumerable  stitches 
and  thought  her  thoughts.  Mr.  Martin  sat  at  the 
other  side  of  the  table,  lighting  his  pipe  at  minute- 
long  intervals,  and  thought  his  thoughts.  And  yet, 
in  spite  of  this  quiet,  the  air  seemed  thick  to  satura- 
tion with  emotion. 

At  half-past  eleven  there  came  the  sound  of  heel- 
taps clicking  from  the  gate  up  the  concrete  walk  to 
the  house.  Mr.  Martin  did  not  turn,  but  he  took 
his  pipe  from  his  mouth.  The  heel-taps  dotted  their 
way  up  the  steps.  Mrs.  Martin  did  not  turn,  but  she 
sat  suspended  in  the  midst  of  a  stitch.    A  key  turned 


Phoebe  and  the  Little  Blind  God        51 

in  the  lock.  The  door  opened  and  shut.  Still  they 
did  not  move. 

"  Fve  come  back,"  Phoebe  said. 

"  I'm  not  married,"  she  went  on  in  her  clear  voice, 
"  I'm  not  engaged  any  more.  It's  all  over.  I've 
given  him  back  his  ring." 

Still  neither  of  her  auditors  spoke.  They  only 
stared.  Phoebe  went  and  stood  at  her  father's 
chair.  She  began  to  tell  her  story  to  him  just  as  if 
she  were  a  child  again. 

"  He  was  at  the  station  to  meet  me.  And  right 
there,  when  I  was  on  my  way  to  marry  him,  we  had 
our  first  quarrel.  Our  first  real  quarrel,"  she  cor- 
rected herself.  "  We'd  had  others.  But  I  didn't 
call  them  quarrels  because  I  never  was  angry.  I 
see  now  they  were  always  caused  by  his  jealousy. 
But  as  we  stood  in  the  station,  he  happened  to  catch 
a  glimpse  of  us  both  in  the  mirror  there.  I  was 
about  an  inch  taller  than  he.  You  see,  I  had  my 
high-heeled  shoes  on  for  the  first  time.  I  saw  his 
face  change  at  once,  but  I  couldn't,  for  the  life  of 
me,  imagine  what  was  the  matter.  I  had  sort  of 
got  into  the  way  of  trying  to  think  not  to  do  or  say 
things  that  would  annoy  him.  But — but — now  that 
I  was  away  from  you  two,  I  realized  that  I  was  a 
little  afraid  of  him.  I'd  had  dreadful  scenes 
with  him  again  and  again,  but  always  when  one 
of  you  was  downstairs.  You  didn't  know  about  it 
because  he  was  always  careful  to  keep  his  voice 
low." 

There  was  a  sound  in  the  room.     Mrs.  Martin 


52        Phoebe  and  the  Little  Blind  God 

knew  it  was  the  grinding  of  Mr.  Martin's  teeth. 
But  Phoebe  did  not  hear  it.    She  went  on. 

"  He  said  that  I  must  stop  in  Boston  and  get  a 
pair  of  shoes  without  heels  and  that  I  must  never 
wear  anything  else  as  long  as  I  lived.  I  was  only 
too  glad  to  do  that.  I  still  thought  it  was  because 
I  would  have  done  anything  to  make  him  care  for 
me  and  be  kind  again."  She  stopped  and  strangled 
a  little.  "  But  I  see  now  it  was  mainly  because  I 
was  frightened.  We  found  a  Jew  place  that  was 
open  and  I  tried  some  shoes  on.  There  was  only 
one  pair  that  would  fit  me — horrid  cheap-looking 
boats  of  things.  And  I  put  them  on.  The  man  had 
left  us  for  a  moment,  and  he  was  being  very  sweet  to 

me  the  way  he  always  was  after But  just  as  I 

was  buttoning  up  the  last  button,  I  felt  that  I  simply 
could  not  keep  them  on — I  asked  him  if  I  could  wear 
my  own  shoes  to  be  married  in.  And  I  said  that  he 
could  have  his  way  in  every  single  living  thing,  if 
he'd  only  let  me  wear  high  heels,  for  I  did  love 
pretty  slippers  and  shoes.  His  face  got  perfectly 
dreadful,  and  he  said,  4  Certainly  not.  Do  you  think 
I'm  going  to  walk  through  life  with  a  woman  taller 
than  myself?  '  And  then  it  came  over  me  that  I'd 
given  up  everything  for  him — my  father,  my  mother, 
my  friends,  the  wedding  I'd  always  wanted — and 
yet  he  could  not  give  up  this  one  little  thing  for  me. 
I  saw  all  of  a  sudden  what  life  with  him  would  be 
like — I  would  always  be  giving  up  high  heels  as 
long  as  I  lived.  I  didn't  say  a  word,  but  I  took 
those  shoes  right  off  and  put  my  own  on.    4  Did  you 


Phoebe  and  the  Little  Blind  God        53 

hear  me  say  that  I  wouldn't  walk  through  life  with 
a  woman  taller  than  myself?  '  he  said  again.  '  Yes, 
I  heard/  I  answered.  '  The  only  trouble  is  that 
you  said  it  too  soon,  because  now  you're  going  to 
walk  through  life  without  me  altogether.'  And  I 
walked  out  of  the  shop  and  left  him  there." 

Phoebe  paused,  and  then,  unbelievably,  she 
laughed — a  little  dry,  sarcastic  jet  of  laughter.  "  I 
think  some  day  that  I'll  be  able  to  see  that  this  is 
funny.  But  now  I  don't  want  to  talk  about  it  ever 
again."  She  paused.  Then  disjointedly:  "  Tug  was 
at  the  station.  He  brought  me  home  in  the  auto.  I 
think  he  saw  that  something  was  wrong,  but  he 
didn't  ask  any  questions.  Oh,  what  a  friend  Tug 
has  been  to  me !  "  Another  pause.  Then  even  more 
disjointedly,  "  Father,  I  guess  I've  been  crazy,  but 
I  guess  I  know  as  well  as  anybody  what  a  wicked 
girl  I've  been.  I  guess  I'll  spend  the  rest  of  my  life 
trying  to  make  it  up  to  you  two." 

Phoebe  did  not  address  her  mother.  Perhaps  she 
knew  she  had  no  need.  Mrs.  Martin's  eyes  were 
shining  on  the  sight  of  her  daughter  with  her  father's 
arms  about  her  once  more.  And  then  later  came 
her  chance  when,  prolonging  the  happy  privilege  of 
helping  Phoebe  to  bed,  she  tucked  her  in. 

"  Mother,"  was  Phoebe's  last  faint  word  before 
the  good-night  kiss,  "  somehow  I  feel  old." 

Mrs.  Martin,  luxuriating  in  the  relief  that  comes 
from  the  instantaneous  disappearance  of  a  great 
anguish,  smiled  a  little.  Phoebe's  aspect  of  grief — 
her  white  face,  her  vacant  eyes,  her  working  mouth 


54       Phoebe  and  the  Little  Blind  God 

had  made  her  seem  so  young  in  contrast  with  the 
old-looking  gown  and  the  chastening  hair-net. 
"  Old,"  she  said  to  herself  as  she  lay  down  for  the 
first  time  in  many  weeks  to  a  night  of  perfect  rest, 
"  old." 

But  the  next  morning  when  Phoebe  came  down  to 
breakfast — the  Phoebe  superficially  of  three  months 
before — a  Phoebe  in  a  fresh  middy  blouse  and  her 
curls  flying  free — Mrs.  Martin  saw  that,  in  a  sense, 
her  daughter  was  right.  There  had  been  a  change. 
Somewhere  in  the  night  Phoebe  and  her  womanhood 
had  met  and  joined  hands. 


CHAPTER  III 
PHOEBE  AMONG  THE  BOHEMIANS 

MR.  MARTIN  would  have  said  that  the  direct 
cause  of  Phoebe's  visit  to  New  York  was 
a  letter.  Phoebe  would  have  said  that  it  was  a 
book.  As  for  the  indirect  causes — if  she  had  con- 
ducted him  through  the  labyrinth  of  choked  and 
broken  pillars  which  was  the  ruin  of  her  simple  girl- 
psychology,  Mr.  Martin  would  not  have  been  more 
puzzled  than  Phoebe  herself.  She  wrote  Sylvia 
Gordon  that  Mrs.  Raeburn's.  invitation  and  Henri 
Murger's  "  La  Vie  de  Boheme  "  came  "  as  if  sent 
by  fate  at  the  psychological  moment"  A  conversa- 
tion with  her  father  cleared  up  much  to  him. 

"  Father,"  she  said,  "  I  think  I  will  go  on  to  New 
York.  I've  made  up  my  mind  to  stay  a  month  or 
maybe  longer.  I  know  other  people  there  beside 
the  Raeburns — Tom  and  Eleanor  Hight  and  Au- 
gusta Pugh." 

"  I  think  it  would  be  a  very  good  idea  to  go  away 
from  home  for  a  while,  Phoebe,"  Mr.  Martin  an- 
swered immediately.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he 
made  that  remark  in  a  perfectly  natural  tone  of 
voice.  But  Phoebe  came  over  and  seated  herself  on 
the  side  of  his  chair.  She  continued  the  conversa- 
tion with  one  arm  about  her  father's  neck.    "  Now, 

55 


56  Phoebe  Among  the  Bohemians 

father,  don't  think  I'm  going  because  Fm  sad.  I'm 
only  restless.  Father,  I'll  tell  you  a  secret.  I'm 
just  dying  for  a  sort  of  Bohemian  existence  for  a 
while.  And  New  York  is  Bohemia,  from  all  I've 
read  about  it.  Did  you  ever  know  any  really-truly 
Bohemians,  father?" 

"  No,"  Mr.  Martin  said  with  decision.  "  All  my 
friends  work  for  a  living.  Bohemia,  as  a  resort,  has 
come  into  fashion  since  my  salad  days.  It  really 
isn't  a  country,  Phoebe,  or  even  a  state  of  mind. 
It's  a  disease.  Young  people  nowadays  seem  to 
have  to  go  through  it  just  as  they  have  to  get  their 
second  teeth.  I  think  the  time  will  come  when  we'll 
be  compelled  by  law  to  expose  our  children  to 
Bohemianism  at  an  early  age,  so  they  can  catch 
a  mild  attack  and  get  over  it.  No,  I've  never  lived 
there.  I  don't  think  I've  ever  known  a  real  Bo- 
hemian. You  see,  I  married  very  young  and,  as  far 
as  I  can  gather,  there's  nothing  so  withering  to  the 
free  air  of  Bohemia  as  a  breath  of  matrimony." 

11  Well,  father,  you'll  have  to  admit,"  Phoebe  re- 
torted with  a  flash  of  the  old  Phoebe,  "  that  mar- 
riage does  make  people  awfully  stupid.  I  don't  see 
why  it  should,  either.  But,  honestly  and  truly,  fa- 
ther, when  I  study  the  married  people  in  Maywood, 
it's  enough  to  make  me  vow  to  be  an  old  maid  all 
my  life.  They're  so  contented/  Don't  you  hate 
contented  people,  father?  Why,  nobody  here  seems 
to  have  an  idea  above  making  a  good  home,  giving 
the  children  an  education,  and  sort  of  keeping  an  eye 
on  Maywood  and  the  country  at  large." 


Phoebe  Among  the  Bohemians  57 

"  After  all,"  Mr.  Martin  said  meekly,  "  that's 
some  job,  Phoebe." 

"  Anybody  ought  to  be  able  to  do  it  with  one 
hand  tied,"  Phoebe  announced  with  scorn. 

"  Bertha,"  Mr.  Martin  said  later,  "  what  do  you 
think  Phoebe  wants  to  do  now?  She  wants  to  lead 
a  Bohemian  existence  for  a  while." 

It  was  so  long  before  Mrs.  Martin  spoke  that 
Mr.  Martin  finally  looked  at  her  in  apprehension. 
But,  as  often  happened,  when  her  comment  came,  it 
was  a  surprise  to  him.  "  Well,  Edward,  I  know 
you'll  be  astonished,  but  I  don't  blame  that  child  at 
all.  I've  had  that  same  feeling  again  and  again 
myself.  Do  you  know  what  my  favorite  stories  in 
the  magazines  are?  About  groups  of  young  people 
— artists  and  singers  and  actors  and  writers — meet- 
ing every  night  at  an  Italian  restaurant,  and  the  love 
stories  that  grow  out  of  them.  I  often  wish  I'd  had 
an  experience  like  that.  At  first  I  used  to  think  that 
there  must  be  something  wicked  about  that  kind  of 
life.  But  now,  the  more  I  study  it,  the  more  it 
seems  right  that  young  folks  should  have  their  fling 
— in  an  innocent  way,  of  course — before  they  get 
married.  When  I  read  those  stories,  I  always  feel 
as  if  I'd  missed  something.  Not  that  I'd  give  up 
one  hour  of  our  married  life.  And  yet  I'd  hate  to 
think  of  Phoebe  and  Ernie  going  through  all  we 
went  through  so  young.  Do  you  remember  that 
time  when  Phoebe  was  a  little  girl  and  Dr.  Bush  was 
afraid  she  had  diphtheria?  You  were  on  the  road 
and  I  couldn't  get  you  anywhere.    Oh,  what  a  week 


58  Phoebe  Among  the  Bohemians 

that  was !  And  Ernie  was  such  a  good  little  thing, 
I  remember — played  all  day  long  by  himself  and 
never  made  one  speck  of  trouble." 

"  Well,  I  guess  we  won't  have  to  think  of  Phoebe's 
getting  married  yet  a  while,"  Mr.  Martin  said. 
And,  inconsistently,  he  sighed. 

He  was  approaching  a  subject  virtually  taboo  be- 
tween them.  "  Now  let's  not  think  of  that,  father," 
Mrs.  Martin  interjected.  "  Phoebe's  all  right  now. 
That  was  a  terrible  experience  for  her,  but  a  girl's 
first  love-affair  is  more  than  likely  to  be  unhappy. 
Think  of  Fannie  Todd  and  Nellie  Downing  and 
Flossie  Burnham.  And  Phoebe's  been  so  plucky 
about  it!  She  wouldn't  go  away  at  first.  That's 
like  her — to  stay  on  the  spot  and  fight  it  out.  And 
now  that  she's  willing  to  go  shows  that  the  worst  is 
over.  Have  you  ever  noticed,  Edward,  how  Phoebe 
plays  tennis?  She  always  starts  off  with  a  terrible 
dash  and  then,  somewhere  along  the  middle  of  the 
game,  she  seems  to  go  right  to  pieces — she  can't 
hit  a  ball  or  anything.  Oh,  I've  heard  Ernie 
and  Tug  call  her  down  so  hard.  And  then,  some- 
how, somewhere  near  the  end,  she  seems  to  brace 
up  in  a  flash,  and  plays  like  a  streak.  It's  what 
people  call  *  a  second  wind,'  I  guess.  Phoebe's  just 
getting  that  now — it's  a  new  kind  of  strength." 

"  Yes,  she's  game — I  give  her  credit  for  that. 
She's  always  had  plenty  of  grit  and  ginger  and  get- 
up-and-go.  But  now  she  seems  so  listless  and  idle," 
Mr.  Martin  answered.  "  It  seems  as  if  she'd  never 
get  over  it." 


Phoebe  Among  the  Bohemians  59 

"  She  is  over  it,"  Mrs.  Martin  said  with  the  quiet 
certainty  of  conviction.  "  But  in  the  meantime 
something  else  has  happened.  It  isn't  alone  that 
terrible  experience  that's  made  the  change — Phoebe 
became  a  woman  in  a  night,  as  you  might  say.  It's 
as  if  she'd  been  promoted  suddenly  to  an  upper  class 
in  the  middle  of  the  term — she  can't  seem  to  get  the 
hang  of  anything.  Most  girls  go  gradually  from 
childhood  to  girlhood  and  from  girlhood  to  woman- 
hood. But  Phoebe  was  thrown  into  womanhood 
— poor  little  thing.  She's  all  bruised  and  sore. 
Oh,  Edward,  I'm  sure  the  worst  of  that  experience 
with  Professor  Hazeltine  is  over;  she  doesn't  regret. 
It's  trying  to  adjust  herself  that  makes  her  so 
strange." 

"  Hasn't  she  ever  said  anything  about  it  to  you 
since  that  night?  "  Mr.  Martin  asked. 

"  She's  never  breathed  a  word,"  Mrs.  Martin 
answered.  "  That's  Phoebe.  She's  the  kind  that 
talks  all  the  time  about  little  things.  But  let  some 
big  thing  come  along  and  she  shuts  right  up.  I  want 
her  to  go  to  New  York — I  think  it  will  do  her  any 
amount  of  good.  I  like  Mrs.  Raeburn  very  much, 
and  of  course  it  will  be  a  great  experience  for  Phoebe 
just  to  live  in  that  beautiful  house.  New  York 
people  are  so  different,  too.  They  go  so  much. 
They'll  do  anything  to  make  it  gay  for  Phoebe. 
Oh,  it's  almost  an  act  of  Providence !  " 

Perhaps  the  interstices  in  this  talk  and  in  Phoebe's 
conversation  with  her  father  can  be  best  filled  by  the 
following  notes : 


60  Phoebe  Among  the  Bohemians 

Dear  Sylvia: 

It  is  all  settled  and  I'm  off  Thursday  for  New  York 
to  investigate  la  vie  de  Boheme.  I  told  father  and  mother 
that  I'd  be  gone  a  month.  But  if  I  like  it,  I  shall  stay 
all  winter.  Oh,  Sylvia,  I  am  so  desperately  unhappy.  I 
feel  reckless.  One  thing  I'd  like  to  say,  although  I  know  I 
needn't  say  this  to  you.  Of  course  it  was  an  accident  your 
coming  upon  me  just  after  Tug  proposed  to  me  that  time.  I 
know  you  wouldn't  mention  it,  but  please  don't  even  remem- 
ber it.  I  feel  as  if  a  girl  ought  to  be  as  secret  about  such 
things  as  a  man.  Above  all  things,  don't  let  Tug  suspect 
that  you  know.    And  be  awfully  good  to  him.         P.  M. 

Dear  Eleanor  and  Tom: 

I  am  coming  on  to  New  York  for  a  long  visit.  Please 
let  me  see  you  while  I'm  there.  I  am  inclosing  a  card 
with  my  address.  Everybody  in  Maywood  is  envying 
you  two  frantically — they  say  you  have  such  gay  times. 

Yours  very  cordially, 

Phoebe  Martin. 

My  dear  Augusta: 

Have  you  forgotten  Phoebe  Martin  and  how  we  used 
to  write  foolish  diaries  together?  A  great  many  things 
have  happened  since  then  and  I  don't  know  how  you 
regard  the  Augusta  Pugh  that  I  used  to  know.  I  assure 
you  that  I  look  upon  the  Phoebe  Martin  that  you  used  to 
know  as  a  conceited  little  idiot. 

Tug  Warburton  told  me  that  he  met  you  in  New  York 
when  he  was  there  last.  That  is  how  I  know  enough  to 
send  this  care  of  "  The  Moment."     I  am  coming  to  New 


Phoebe  Among  the  Bohemians  61 

York  for  a  visit  and  I  do  wish  I  might  see  you.     Enclosed 
is  a  card  with  my  address. 

Yours  very  sincerely, 

Phoebe  Martin. 

Dearest  Mother: 

This  is  really  my  first  chance  to  write  a  long  letter.  For, 
oh,  the  last  three  days  have  been  so  gay.  Tell  father,  that 
with  my  usual  luck  I  landed  right  in  the  heart  of  Bohemia. 
But  I'll  return  to  that  later.  And  in  the  meantime,  I'll 
tell  you  about 

Mother,  I  thought  I  knew  what  luxury  was  before  I 
came  to  New  York.  For  of  course  the  Warburton  house 
and  the  Marsh  place  are  perfectly  beautiful.  Also  Marble- 
head  was  simply  filled  with  lovely  homes.  Then  again, 
when  we  were  abroad,  Mrs.  Warburton  often  stayed  at  very 
expensive  hotels.  But  Mrs.  Raeburn  lives  on  a  scale  of 
magnificence  that  I  have  read  about  only  in  novels.  That 
hurried  lunch  that  we  had  in  passing  through  when  I  came 
home  from  Europe  could  give  you  no  idea  of  the  resources 
of  her  household — well,  it's  what  in  novels  they  call  an 
"  establishment."  I  have  not  yet  got  the  run  of  the 
servants — there  must  be  sixteen.  I  have  always  wondered 
how  many  maids  you  had  to  have  before  you  could  get  a 
butler,  how  many  butlers  it  took  to  make  a  coachman,  how 
many  coachmen  to  make  a  footman.  Well,  if  I  keep  on 
counting,  maybe  I'll  find  out.  Not  that  Mrs.  Raeburn  has 
coachmen  or  footmen.  She  hasn't.  But  she  has  a  French 
chauffeur  and  three  motors.  Mother,  I  wish  you  could 
see  their  touring-car.  Ern  Martin  would  simply  have  to 
be  tied.     I  don't  know  whether  you  could  be  operated  on 


62  Phoebe  Among  the  Bohemians 

for  appendicitis  in  it  but  you  could  do  anything  else. 
Cosmetics,  writing-materials,  sewing-things,  books,  papers, 
magazines,  a  medicine  case,  a  tea-table — and  always  a  bunch 
of  fresh  flowers  in  a  hanging  vase. 

I  guess  the  easiest  way  to  tell  you  what  I've  done  is  to 
describe  the  program  of  my  day.  In  the  first  place,  I  have 
a  suite  of  rooms  all  to  myself — that  is,  a  living-room,  cham- 
ber, dressing-room,  and  bath — all  in  white  and  pink,  with 
closets  enough  to  stock  a  hotel  (electric  lights  in  every  one 
of  them),  and  furnished — mother,  it  looks  like  a  stage- 
setting.  Every  morning  about  nine,  in  comes  a  maid  with 
my  breakfast  (which  Fm  supposed  to  eat  in  bed)  on  a  tray. 
But  I  cannot  for  the  life  of  me  eat  that  way,  so  the  moment 
she's  gone,  I  hop  out,  spread  everything  on  a  table,  and 
devour  every  blessed  morsel  she's  brought  me.  I  wish  I 
could  pause  to  tell  you  about  the  wonderful  china  and  the 
Sheffield  plate,  but  if  I  stop  for  details,  I'll  never  get  any- 
where. In  the  morning,  I  go  to  art  exhibitions  or  shop- 
ping or  walk  with  the  children  in  Central  Park  and  feed 
the  animals  in  the  menagerie.  Lunch  comes  about  two. 
In  Maywood,  we  would  call  it  a  dinner-party.  Tea  comes 
at  five.  If  we  have  it  at  home,  somebody  always  seems  to 
come  in.  Sometimes  they  ask  to  see  the  children.  And  in 
that  case  down  come  Althea,  Marjorie,  and  Phyllis,  in 
white  cobwebby  frocks  and  petti-skirts,  white  stockings  and 
white  shoes,  all  floating  golden  curls,  tied  with  rose  ribbons, 
carrying  their  toys  and  followed  by  their  pets — their  toys 
great  woolly  lambs  and  great  golden-haired  dollies  dressed 
just  as  extravagantly  as  they — their  pets  two  white  Spitz 
dogs  and  a  mammoth  white  Angora  cat.  When  that  blonde 
procession   comes  streaming   into   the   great   dark,   shadowy 


Phoebe  Among  the  Bohemians  63 

wainscoted  library,  I  always  feel  as  if  I  were  living  in  a 
fairy-tale.  And  for  the  tea  itself,  I  never  heard  of  such 
sandwiches  or  dreamed  of  such  cakes — it's  fairy  food,  all 
right. 

Generally,  however,  we  go  out  to  tea — to  Sherry's  or 
Del's  or  the  Plaza  or  the  Gotham.  Mrs.  Raeburn  always 
tells  Henri  to  drive  slowly  up  and  down  the  Avenue  for 
about  a  half  an  hour  so  that  I  can  see  the  spectacle,  and 
she  sits  beside  me  and  points  out  celebrities — opera  people, 
actors,  society  folks,  writers,  painters — it's  just  as  if  "  Who's 
Who  in  America  "  was  parading  past.  And  such  a  picture  as 
it  is.  At  the  upper  end  of  the  Avenue,  the  houses  make 
a  cliff  against  the  sky  on  one  side,  the  Park  trees  a  great 
bank  of  shadow  on  the  other.  You  feel  just  as  if  way 
up  there,  a  huge  giant  were  shaking  out  of  an  enormous 
cornucopia  carriages  and  hansoms  and  taxis  and  motors  of 
every  description,  all  filled  with  gorgeously  dressed  women, 
exquisite  children,  smart  nurses,  lovely  brown,  fluffy,  pointy- 
nosed  Chow  dogs,  or  little,  smoky,  saucy  bright-eyed 
Pomeranians.  There's  something  wonderful  about  the  New 
York  air.  In  the  distance  you  see  patches  of  light  and 
shade  on  the  houses  just  as  you've  seen  sun  and  shadow 
break  on  a  cliff  or  hillside.  And  later,  as  it  gets  towards 
dark  and  the  double  rows  of  the  Avenue  lights  blaze  up 
into  that  dusky-blue  vapor  which  is  the  New  York  twilight 
— mother,  they  look  like  parallel  necklaces  of  huge  purple 
pearls  or  great  blue  opals  strung  from  Washington  Square, 
where  they  begin,  to  Murray  Hill,  where  they  burst  right 
through  the  sky  and  disappear.  Oh,  it's  so  beautiful! 
Something  in  me  seems  to  sing  and  dance  when  I'm  on  the 
Avenue.      I    guess  lots  of  women   feel   that  way,   for   it's 


64  Phoebe  Among  the  Bohemians 

always  full  of  women.  And  such  beauties,  too!  Only, 
mother,  they're  so  different  from  Boston  women!  I  don't 
exactly  know  how  to  describe  my  sensations.  But  when 
you're  walking  in  Boston  and  you  see  a  woman  dressed 
extremely,  and  conspicuous  in  every  sense  of  the  word, 
you  know  that  she's  not  a  nice  person  and  that's  all  there 
is  to  it.  But  in  New  York,  they  all  look  that  way.  Why, 
you  feel  as  if  everybody's  nice  or  nobody's  nice.  I  give  it 
up.  But,  anyway,  I  don't  care  as  long  as  they  make  such 
pictures.  And  they  do  literally  make  pictures  of  them- 
selves— hand-painted,  so  to  speak.  Everybody  seems  to 
paint.  Mrs.  Raeburn  does  for  dinner.  And  last  night, 
Felice,  who's  her  maid  and  who  waits  on  me  by  inches, 
coaxed  me  to  let  her  put  a  little  color  on  my  face.  I  said 
"  Yes,"  just  for  fun,  and  it  looked  so  pretty  I  let  it  stay. 
(Now  tell  Father  Martin  that  he  needn't  go  right  up  in 
the  air,  for  I  shall  never  do  it  again.  I  just  wanted  to 
see  how  it  looked.  But  I  didn't  feel  right  all  the  evening.) 
At  night  we  go  to  the  theater  generally.  Theater  nights 
we  have  dinner  at  seven,  other  nights  at  eight.  Last  night 
we  saw,  what  do  you  think,  Mr.  Raikes'  opening  in  the 
new  Glaive  play — "  A  He  and  She  Affair."  We  had  a  box 
and  he  saw  me  the  moment  he  came  on  the  stage.  I  could 
feel  him  playing  to  us  all  the  evening.  It  was  terribly 
flattering.  Mrs.  Raeburn  says  that  young  girls  go  perfectly 
crazy  over  him.  That's  inexplicable  to  me,  for,  mother, 
he  looks  quite  old.  After  the  theater,  you  always  go  some- 
where for  supper,  notwithstanding  the  fact  that  you  can't 
be  the  least  bit  hungry.  But,  oh,  you'd  eat  live  coals  to  be 
in  the  room  with  those  gowns — so  many  wonderful  women 
— all  looking  as  if  they  were  heroines  of  romance.     If  I 


Phoebe  Among  the  Bohemians  65 

lived  in  New  York  I'd  put  up  a  tent  where  Fifth  Avenue 
and  Broadway  cross.  For  New  York  does  not  exist  outside 
of  these  streets.  For  me,  the  Avenue  by  day — and  Broad- 
way by  night !  Broadway  at  night !  They  call  it  "  the  alley 
of  stars!"  All  the  shops  are  lighted  up,  and  above  them 
to  the  roofs,  wonderful  electric  signs  are  flashing  gold  and 
darkening  black  before  your  eyes.  It's  just  as  if  you  were 
driving  between  parallel  rows  of  noiseless  fireworks  or  a 
pair  of  perfectly  well-trained  conflagrations.  Do  you  re- 
member those  keleidoscopes  that  Ern  and  I  were  so  crazy 
about  when  we  were  children?  Well,  you  feel  as  if  you 
were  suspended  in  the  middle  of  one  of  those.  And  then 
when  the  theaters  let  out  and  the  crowds  begin  to  pack 
the  streets,  you  see  nothing  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach  but 
fluttering  plumes,  the  flash  of  jewels,  the  sheen  of  velvet 
and  satin  and  fur,  you  hear  nothing  but  the  sound  of  the 
theater  men  megaphoning  for  taxis  and  all  kinds  of  motors 
starting  up.  I  saw  nothing  like  it  in  Paris — nothing  so 
gay  or  so  different.  Mother,  why  is  it  that  a  woman  just 
loves  to  go  where  there's  a  lot  of  money  being  spent?  It 
just  exhilarates  me.  All  I  can  say  is  that  when  I  get 
home,  I  lie  for  an  hour  trying  to  simmer  down  to  a  sleep- 
level.    This  must  be  all  for  now. 

Your  loving, 

Phoebe. 
Dearest  Mother: 

Now  about  Bohemia!  All  that's  necessary  to  prove  to 
you  that  I'm  living  in  that  wonderful  country  is  to  tell 
you  the  names  of  the  great  people  I'm  meeting.  Mrs. 
Raeburn  has  given  two  dinner  parties  for  me.  She  had 
a  long  talk  with  me  when  I  first  came  and  she  said  she 


66  Phoebe  Among  the  Bohemians 

would  like  to  give  a  dance.  But  I  told  her  I  much  pre- 
ferred the  dinner-parties,  for  I  had  never  been  to  one.  Be- 
sides, I  got  enough  dancing  in  Maywood.  She  told  me 
that  she  was  much  relieved  at  my  decision.  She  said  that 
she  would  be  up  against  it  getting  men,  because  she  had 
no  daughters  of  the  debutante  age.  She  says  New  York 
men  are  an  awfully  independent  lot.  She  says  they  can 
go  anywhere,  opera,  theater,  dinner  without  its  costing  them 
anything,  even  common  courtesy,  so  why  should  they  come  to 
a  dance  where  they  would  have  to  exert  themselves?  Now 
about  the  dinners. 

At  the  first  one,  the  guests  of  honor  were  Blanche  Hokeby, 
the  novelist,  and  Perugio,  the  wonderful  Italian  tenor.  You 
must  have  read  some  of  her  stories,  mother.  She  writes 
awfully  clever  ones — you're  never  quite  sure  what  she's 
driving  at  and  they  almost  always  end  before  they're  begun. 
He  was  a  big,  black  bounding  giant  of  a  man,  so  full  of 
life  that  he  looks  as  if  a  sick  person  could  be  made  well  just 
by  touching  him.  She's  the  kind  of  a  woman  that  you  know 
you'll  think  is  beautiful  the  third  time  you've  seen  her.  She 
looks  like  one  of  those  high  art  photographs — as  if  the  print 
hadn't  been  developed  quite  enough.  They  talked  wonder- 
fully— only  they're  so  different.  When  Perugio  talks  you 
feel  as  if  an  electric  fan  were  playing  magnetism  over  you — 
he's  spraying  you  with  his  personality.  And  when  she  talks, 
you  feel  the  way  you  do  when  you're  standing  on  a  railroad 
platform  and  an  express  rushes  by — sort  of  pulled  into  her 
personality.  Somehow  they  got  to  trading  hard-luck  stories 
in  regard  to  how  they  got  started.  Perugio  was  awfully 
funny.  He  told  us  all  with  the  utmost  simplicity  how  he 
began  as  a  sort  of  singing  waiter  in  an  Italian  cafe,  and  he 


Phoebe  Among  the  Bohemians  67 

illustrated  with  the  dishes  what  fierce  breaks  he  made  in 
serving.  And  he  seemed  to  be  proud  as  a  lion  over  the 
number  of  plates  he  could  balance  on  his  arm.  "  Those 
were  the  happiest  days  of  my  life,  though,"  he  said,  "  the 
days  of  the  first  applause." 

Mrs.  Hokeby  told  all  about  the  little  Western  mining 
camp  in  which  she  was  brought  up,  and  how  she  used  to 
write  rocking  the  baby's  cradle  with  her  foot.  She  was 
dreadfully  poor  then,  only  getting  about  one  story  in  sixteen 
accepted.  "  But  those  were  wonderful  times,"  she  said, 
"  those  days  of  the  first  acceptances  and  the  first  checks." 
After  dinner,  we  went  into  the  music-room  and  she  sang  some 
cowboy  songs  for  Perugio — "  The  Dying  Cowboy  "  and 
"  Sam  Bass  "  are  all  that  I  can  remember.  He  was  per- 
fectly delighted  with  them,  and  in  return  he  sang  some 
peasant  songs  for  her — just  the  ones  he  used  to  sing  when 
he  was  a  waiter.  Afterward  he  happened  to  come  and  sit 
beside  me.  As  he  approached  me,  it  all  came  over  me  with 
a  feeling  that,  somehow,  there  was  magic  in  it,  that  here 
was  Perugio — the  only  Perugio,  that  Boston  is  just  dying 
to  hear, — and  how  I  could  go  back  to  Maywood  and  tell  them 
all  about  him.  I  don't  know  how  I  looked,  but  he  said, 
"  Have  a  care,  mademoiselle,  or  your  eyes  will  leap  out." 
And  I  said,  "  Well,  how  would  you  feel  if  you'd  never  been 
any  nearer  to  yourself  than  a  Victor- Victrola?  "  And  he 
laughed  and  laughed  and  he  said  that  reminded  him  he  was 
going  to  sing  into  a  phonograph  to-morrow  morning,  and  if 
Mrs.  Raeburn  would  care  to  come  he'd  stop  in  his  car 
and  take  us  both  to  hear  it.  Well,  you  can  imagine  how 
I  felt  when  he  said  that — I  was  just  about  dippy  with  delight 
for  the  whole  rest  of  the  evening.    And  when  he  left,  I  was 


68  Phoebe  Among  the  Bohemians 

so  afraid  he'd  forget  and  yet  I  didn't  want  to  remind  him. 
But  I  looked  at  him  as  beseechingly  as  I  could  and  he  just 
laughed  and  said,  "  No,  I  won't  forget." 

Two  nights  later,  there  was  another  dinner-party — this 
time  the  guests  of  honor  were  Mrs.  John  Marks  Sinclair, 
you  know  that  New  York  society  woman  whose  picture  is 
always  in  the  paper,  the  one  who's  made  such  a  hit  at  the 
English  court — and  Raoul,  the  great  French  painter. 
Mother,  if  they  weren't  the  most  extraordinary  pair!  I'm 
going  to  tell  you  just  how  she  was  dressed  down  to  the 
last  detail,  for  if  I  don't  tell  somebody  I'll  burst.  I  will 
say  first  that  she  wore  on  her  head  a  silver  fillet.  All  back 
of  that  fillet,  her  hair  was  brown.  All  front  of  it,  it  was 
orange.  Yes,  sir — orange — not  red  nor  gold,  nor  auburn, 
nor  Titian,  but  orange,  the  exact  color  of  a  tangerine.  She 
was  made  up,  although  I  did  not  know  this  until  Mrs. 
Raeburn  told  me.  It  seems  that  her  face  and  neck  and 
arms  were  covered  with  a  white  paste.  Out  of  that,  her 
eyes  blazed  like  topazes  and  her  lips  flamed  like  geranium 
petals.  She  looked  like  one  of  those  French  posters  that 
I've  always  believed  were  so  exaggerated  before.  But  the 
best  is  yet  to  come — her  gown.  It  was  of  velvet,  the  color 
of  moleskin,  and  it  was  shaped  like  an  umbrella-case.  How 
she  got  into  it  is  still  puzzling  me.  Either  her  maid  folded 
it  round  her  and  then  sewed  it  on,  or  she  laid  it  flat  on 
the  ground  like  a  gas-pipe  and  Mrs.  Sinclair  crawled  into 
it.  At  the  back  near  the  ground  it  was  weighted  down  by 
two  heavy  silver — bosses,  I  guess  you'd  call  them — they 
looked  like  doorknobs.  The  corsage  was  a  mass  of  silver 
lace,  carrying  out  the  color  motif  of  the  fillet.  She  wore 
so  many  chains  around   her  neck  that  I  could   not  count 


Phoebe  Among  the  Bohemians  69 

them — all  very  fine,  gold  and  pearl  and  jade,  earrings  that 
touched  her  shoulder  like  little  pagodas,  also  of  gold  and 
pearl  and  jade — and  rings  of  gold  and  pearl  and  jade. 
Right  in  the  midst  of  the  chains  there  hung  two  inch- 
square  emeralds,  wonderful  against  her  white  skin,  and  on 
one  hand,  all  alone,  was  another  inch-square  emerald. 
Father  will  hoot  at  this,  but  you  will  understand,  mother, 
I  know,  when  I  tell  you  she  was  bewildering  to  look  at. 
I  have  never  seen  such  beautiful  manners.  After  dinner, 
everybody  in  the  room  sat  beside  her  a  little  while  and 
chatted  with  her.  She  hardly  spoke  herself,  but  she  looked 
right  straight  into  their  eyes  and  listened  so  sweetly.  I  said 
to  myself,  "  When  it  comes  my  turn,  I'm  going  to  make 
you  talk,  my  lady."  But  I  didn't.  The  first  thing  I  knew 
I  was  telling  her  all  about  you.  And  she  said  you  must  be 
just  like  her  own  mother  and  how  she  would  like  to  meet 
you.  And  I  said  if  she  ever  came  to  Maywood  she  must 
stay  with  us  and  she  said  she  would.  Mrs.  Raeburn  says 
that  princes  have  been  in  love  with  her,  and  I  don't  wonder. 
As  for  Raoul — mother,  I  think  I  have  never  seen  such 
a  wonderful  old  face,  or  such  a  sad  one.  Mrs.  Raeburn 
says  that,  some  years  ago,  he  lost  a  beautiful  wife  and  a 
splendid  son  all  within  a  month  of  each  other;  that  he  has 
never  been  the  same  man  since.  Mother,  he  looks  the 
soldier,  the  student,  the  artist,  and  the  gentleman.  There 
is  something  magnificently  stern  about  him,  if  you  know 
what  I  mean,  and  yet  under  the  bitterness  and  sadness  in 
his  eyes,  his  look  is  so  gentle  and  kind!  His  hair  is  silver- 
white  and  his  face  waxen-white.  But  his  eyebrows  are 
jet-black  and  every  line  in  his  face  that  means  grief  looks 
as  if  it  had  been  gone  over  with  a  black  pencil. 


70  Phoebe  Among  the  Bohemians 

At  dinner,  Mrs.  Sinclair  told  us  some  perfectly  marvelous 
stories  about  the  German  court — when  she  was  a  girl  her 
uncle  was  American  ambassador  there.  Why,  mother,  she's 
known  slathers  of  royalty. 

Mr.  Raeburn  told  Perugio's  story  about  being  a  waiter 
and,  somehow,  that  seemed  to  start  Raoul.  He  said  that 
when  he  began  to  paint  he  was  one  of  a  group  of  struggling 
young  artists,  all  equally  poor  and  equally  ambitious.  For 
a  studio,  they  shared  one  big  icy  garret.  They  used  to 
station  one  of  their  number  at  the  window,  turn  and  turn 
about,  to  watch.  And  if  he  saw  a  newspaper  blowing 
along  the  street,  it  was  up  to  him  to  beat  it  down  the 
stairs  and  capture  it,  so  that  they  could  burn  it  in  the 
fireplace  and  warm  their  fingers  for  a  few  moments.  For 
pot-boilers,  they  made  little  illuminated  card-pictures  of 
saints — one  would  do  the  face,  another  the  drapery,  and 
a  third  the  wings.  Then  they'd  draw  lots  as  to  who 
should  stand  on  the  steps  of  the  Madeleine  Sunday  and  sell 
them.  He  said,  "  Oh,  I  was  so  poor  and  so  cold  and  so 
hungry  in  those  days."  He  stopped  for  an  instant  and  his 
thoughts  seemed  to  go  way  off — or  back,  I  guess.  "  And 
so  happy,"  he  added.  "  Those  were  the  happiest  days  of 
my  life  when  my  ringers  first  felt  what  they  could  do." 

Your  loving, 

Phoebe. 

P.S. — Mrs.  Bcale,  Eleanor  Hight's  aunt,  was  at  the 
dinner.  She's  just  as  mad  as  ever  because  Eleanor  married 
Tom.  She  says  Eleanor  comes  to  see  her  regularly,  but  she 
herself  would  not  step  a  foot  inside  the  dreadful  place  in 
which  Eleanor  lives. 


Phoebe  Among  the  Bohemians  71 

Dear  Phoebe  : 

Tug  has  been  over  here  every  night  since  you  left.  He 
makes  all  kinds  of  excuses,  but  I  know  of  course  that  he 
comes  to  hear  your  letters.  I  read  them  all  to  him  and  he 
just  drinks  them  down  to  the  last  drop.  Last  night,  in 
sheer  desperation,  I  took  him  over  to  Ethel  Locke.  You 
know  what  a  stunning  thing  she  is  and  what  a  corking  girl. 
She  always  has  a  crowd  about  her  and  we  had  an  awfully 
good  time.  Tug  made  the  rabbit  for  her  and  I  heard  him 
really  laugh  for  the  first  time  in  a  week.     Lovingly, 

Sylvia. 

The  night  before  Phoebe  left  Mrs.  Raeburn's 
house,  that  lady  came  into  her  room  for  a  farewell 
chat. 

"  I've  had  such  a  lovely  time,  Mrs.  Raeburn," 
Phoebe  began  gratefully.  "  I  guess  I  just  haven't 
got  words  enough  to  tell  you  all  that  I  feel  about  it. 
It's  as  beautiful  an  experience  as  Europe,  for  al- 
though there  IVe  seen  the  most  wonderful  places, 
here  I've  seen  the  most  wonderful  people." 

Mrs.  Raeburn's  bright  eyes  grew,  if  possible,  a 
little  brighter.  She  had  been,  as  Raoul's  portrait 
attested  and  her  three  little  daughters  proved,  a 
rose-and-pearl  blonde,  delicately  and  yet  deeply- 
hued.  At  this  moment,  although  she  looked  like  a 
flower  on  the  first  day  of  fading,  a  certain  child-like 
quality  of  enthusiasm  seemed  to  bring  forth  rem- 
nants of  these  colors.  Indeed,  she  seemed  Phoebe's 
contemporary  in  years,  her  equal  in  spirits. 

"  Phoebe,"   she  declared   earnestly,    "  you   could 


72  Phoebe  Among  the  Bohemians 

not  possibly  have  enjoyed  it  more  than  Mr.  Raeburn 
and  I.  I'm  going  to  tell  you  a  secret.  I  met  Mr. 
Raeburn  first  when  I  was  visiting  New  York.  I  shall 
never  forget — and  he  says  he  never  will — my  first 
enthusiasm  over  it.  All  our  married  life  weVe  been 
saying  that  sometime  we'd  find  a  young  girl  as  un- 
spoiled as  I  was  and  give  her  that  same  experience. 
We  had  not  known  you  an  hour  on  the  boat  before 
we  saw  that  you  were  the  one.  And  tell  your  mother 
that  you've  been  a  perfect  dear.  You've  repaid  us 
a  thousandfold,  in  appreciation,  everything  we've 
done  for  you." 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  Mrs.  Raeburn,"  Phoebe  said. 
"  But  I  guess  I  haven't  told  you  yet  what's  almost 
the  nicest  thing  about  it.  It's  that  I  found  Bohemia 
right  here  in  your  home.  Before  I  came  on,  I  hoped 
that  I'd  have  some  experience  with  the  Bohemian 
life  and  here  it  was  just  waiting  for  me.  I'll  never 
forget  as  long  as  I  live  the  great  geniuses  you've 
introduced  me  to." 

Mrs.  Raeburn  laughed,  and  to  Phoebe  there 
seemed  to  be  an  indulgent  ring  to  her  mirth.  "  My 
dear,  you're  all  wrong  there,  I'm  sorry  to  say.  This 
isn't  Bohemia.  From  the  very  nature  of  things,  it 
couldn't  be.  Les  arrives  can  never  make  a  Bohemia. 
In  fact,  with  all  my  experience  in  New  York  life, 
I  have  never  seen  the  Bohemia  that  you  read  about 
in  books.  And,  Phoebe,  you  can't  possibly  be  more 
interested  to  see  that  phase  of  life  than  I  am.  In 
fact,  you're  going  to  see  it.  According  to  my  idea 
of  it,  there's  a  very  real  Bohemia  at  Mrs.  Hight's. 


Phoebe  Among  the  Bohemians  73 

Mrs.  Beale  has  told  me  so  often  about  that  extraor- 
dinary circle  of  able  young  people  which  her  niece 
has  gathered.  Not  that  Mrs.  Beale  appreciates  it 
— or  has  seen  it  even.  If  she  had,  I  would  have 
asked  her  to  take  me  there.  But  she  hates  it — she 
mentions  it  only  to  scold  at  Eleanor.  Phoebe  dear, 
would  you  mind  inviting  me  to  Mrs.  Hight's  while 
you're  there?  " 

11  Why,  I'd  be  perfectly  delighted!  "  said  Phoebe 
cordially. 

Dearest  Mother: 

Here  I  am  with  Eleanor  and  Tom.  I'm  having  the  time 
of  my  life.  Tom  is  just  as  jolly  and  witty  as  ever — and 
drawls  his  words  out  in  the  same  old  way.  Eleanor  is  a 
pippin.  She  always  did  have  plenty  of  class.  But  New 
York  has  brought  something  else  out  in  her — she's  smart- 
looking.  People  always  stare  at  her  in  the  street — and  yet 
she  dresses  very  simply.  If  May  wood  people  think  that 
Eleanor  Hight's  life  is  just  one  long  Bohemian  orgy,  they're 
very  much  mistaken.  In  the  first  place,  Tom  is  trying  to 
establish  himself  as  a  playwright.  In  January,  he  is  going 
to  give  up  his  job  and,  as  he  says,  "  Play  the  literary  game 
until  he  breaks  or  is  broken."  He  told  me  he  had  had  a 
play  "  almost  accepted,"  and  when  I  asked  him  what  he 
meant  by  "  almost  "  he  said  that  he  thought  by  another  year 
he'd  get  the  manager  to  read  it.  Of  course  the  Hights 
have  to  economize  like  sixty  and  that's  why  they  happen  to 
be  living  in  what  they  call  "  a  model  tenement."  This 
building  was  put  up  originally  for  working-people  and  it's 
mostly  filled  with  them.     Eleanor  says  they're  the  kind  of 


74  Phoebe  Among  the  Bohemians 

people  whose  correspondence  is  entirely  conducted  by  pic- 
ture-postcards, and  it  is  true  that  the  post-boxes  are  always 
choked  up  with  them.  Moreover,  they  are  such  a  shifting 
transient  class  that  an  agent  collects  the  rents  once  a  week 
(six  dollars  per).  Eleanor  says  it  gives  her  the  strangest 
sensation  to  be  held  up  every  Friday  afternoon.  She's 
always  forgetting  that  it's  rent-day  and  having  to  scrabble 
round  for  the  money  among  her  friends.  I  should  have  said 
that  there  are  a  few  artists  and  writers  and  illustrators  and 
actresses  in  the  house — all  exactly  as  poor  as  the  Hights. 
They  buy  their  gas.  That  is,  they  put  a  twenty-five-cent 
piece  in  a  slot  and  when  they've  used  that  up  they  get  no 
"  juice,"  as  Tom  calls  it,  if  they  don't  happen  to  have 
another  quarter.  It's  the  tiniest  place  I  ever  was  in — you 
could  put  the  whole  apartment  down  in  Mrs.  Raeburn's 
library — a  little  living-room,  a  kitchen,  bedroom,  and  bath. 
Tom  and  Eleanor  are  sleeping  in  the  living-room  now  and 
have  given  the  bedroom  to  me.  It  is  such  fun — it's  a  real 
doll's  existence.  Eleanor  says  the  Lord  certainly  tempers 
the  wind  to  the  shorn  lamb,  for  if  she  had  loads  of  pretty 
clothes,  she  would  not  know  where  to  hang  them.  The 
closets  are  boxes.  Why,  she  can't  even  buy  more  than 
enough  food  for  one  meal,  the  refrigerator — Tom  calls  it 
the  "  jewel-box  " — is  so  tiny.  Luckily  the  place  is  heated 
and  provided  with  hot  water.  The  floors  are  stone,  the 
walls  painted  yellow.  Eleanor  says  it  was  perfectly  cool 
there  all  through  the  tropical  New  York  summer.  Only 
the  moment  spring  comes,  the  windows  open  and  every 
woman  in  the  place  puts  a  cushion  on  the  sill  and  hangs 
out  the  whole  afternoon  long.  Also  about  forty  billion 
phonographs  start  up  all  over  the  establishment.     Eleanor 


Phoebe  Among  the  Bohemians  75 

says  the  working-man  can  go  without  clothes  and  bread, 
but  he  must  have  a  phonograph. 

My  day  here  is  very  different  from  a  day  with  Mrs. 
Raeburn.  No  more  motoring,  no  more  teas  on  the  Avenue, 
no  theater  at  night  and  supper  afterward.  But  I  am  enjoy- 
ing it  exactly  as  much — for,  mother,  tell  father  I  have  cer- 
tainly found  Bohemia.  But  here  I  am  again,  plunging 
right  into  the  midst  of  things  when  I  should  start  at  the 
beginning. 

This  apartment  is  right  near  Gramercy  Park,  which 
looks  exactly  like  Mecklenburg  Square,  where  our  lodgings 
were  in  England.  I  walk  through  it  whenever  I  can,  just 
to  make  believe  I'm  in  London  again.  And  in  fact,  mother, 
you  keep  coming  across  places  in  New  York  that  are  exactly 
like  Europe.  Back  of  Washington  Square  runs  an  alley 
called  Washington  Mews.  Doesn't  that  bring  back  Thack- 
eray and  the  Georges  to  you?  There's  an  armory  on  Thirty- 
second  Street  that  has  a  tower  like  the  Palazzo  Vecchio  in 
Florence.  Madison  Square  Garden  makes  you  think  of 
adorable,  arcaded  Bologna,  especially  when  the  man  is  feed- 
ing the  doves  there.  Washington  Square  is  just  like  a  chunk 
cut  out  of  the  heart  of  Paris — that  is,  the  north  side,  but 
the  south  side  is  all  Italian.  There's  a  church  there  exactly 
like  Santa  Maria  in  Cosmedin  at  Rome.  And  in  the  Park — 
maybe  my  heart  didn't  jump  when  I  saw  it — is  a  statue  of 
my  beloved  Garibaldi — little  round  cap  and  all.  How  I 
know  all  this  is  because  Eleanor  and  I  have  taken  so  many 
long  exploring  hikes.  We  walk  everywhere,  because  we 
both  love  to  walk  and  we  want  to  be  economical.  Eleanor 
is  determined  not  to  let  me  pay  for  anything,  and  that  being 
the  case  I  am  determined  that  there  shall  be  nothing  to  pay 


76  Phoebe  Among  the  Bohemians 

for.  Indeed,  that's  the  gorgeous  thing  about  New  York. 
There  is  so  much  that  you  get  free — in  the  way  of  interest- 
ing exhibitions — that  you  don't  need  money.  And  as 
Eleanor  says,  the  street  scene  is  just  like  one  long  circus 
parade.  I  am  finding  out  that  Fifth  Avenue  and  Broadway 
aren't  all  New  York — not  by  any  manner  of  means.  I 
foolishly  thought  so  and  I  rather  think  Mrs.  Raeburn's  set 
does.  At  least  one  of  her  friends  said  that  she  had  never 
ridden  on  the  L,  never  walked  south  of  Twenty-third, 
west  of  Broadway,  or  east  of  Lexington  Avenue.  All  I've 
got  to  say  is  she  doesn't  know  what  she's  missed. 

Eleanor  has  taken  me  through  the  various  foreign  quar- 
ters— the  Ghetto  over  on  the  East  Side  that's  almost  as 
interesting  as  Naples  and  certainly  quite  as  dirty  and  noisy, 
the  Italian  quarters,  Chinatown,  and  even  a  Syrian  quarter. 
Best  of  all,  I  like  Greenwich  Village;  for  that's  just  like 
a  little  piece  of  Dutchland  left  over  from  Colonial  times. 
Eleanor  took  me  to  call  on  a  Miss  Van  Vliet,  whose  people 
have  lived  in  the  same  house  for  seventy-five  years.  Eleanor 
says  that  she  regards  anybody  who  lives  in  his  own  house 
in  New  York  with  almost  a  superstitious  reverence.  Miss 
Van  Vliet,  who's  a  poetess,  says  that  it's  been  so  strange 
to  watch  the  skyline  come  up  from  nothing  and  reach  higher 
and  higher  until  it  just  closed  in  about  her.  She  said  that 
she  had  come  to  feel  as  if  she  were  in  prison  and  then  the 
Metropolitan  Tower  began  to  grow  up  before  her  eyes  like 
a  marvelous  white  tree.  Finally,  one  night  the  great 
clock  suddenly  burst  into  bloom  way  up  high  in  the  sky. 
She  loves  that  tower— she  says  it's  a  thing  of  beauty  from 
morn  till  dewy  eve — and  she  loves  the  clock — she  calls  it 
"  Moonface."     You  can't  imagine  what  quaint  little  shops 


Phoebe  Among  the  Bohemians  77 

we  come  across  in  these  out-of-the-way  places,  and  what 
charming,  kindly,  interesting  foreigners  keeping  them.  If 
people  get  an  idea  that  New  York  is  all  pomp  and  show 
and  foolish  wealth,  they  are  very  much  mistaken.  Eleanor 
says  it's  just  filled  and  brimming  over  with  ambitious, 
aspiring  young  people. 

Sometimes  late  in  the  afternoon  when  we  haven't  any- 
thing else  to  do,  we  ride  across  the  river  in  a  ferry-boat, 
returning  just  as  it's  getting  dark.  And  if  that  great  bunch 
of  skyscrapers  at  the  tip  end  of  Manhattan — all  a-flame  and 
a-glitter  as  if  tinsel  paper  had  been  let  in  at  the  windows — 
isn't  a  fairy  vision,  then  I  can't  imagine  one.  Mother,  I'm 
wild  about  the  skyscrapers.  If  Michael  Angelo  were  to 
come  to  New  York  to-morrow,  the  first  thing  he'd  do  would 
be  to  design  a  skyscraper  that  would  make  the  Singer 
Building  look  like  a  slice  of  cheese.  You  feel  as  if  you  were 
entering  a  country  of  Titans  and  Brodignagians.  And  it 
is  a  country  of  giants!  Shivers  just  go  up  and  down  my 
spine  thinking  of  what  a  gateway  it  is  and  what  it  opens 
up  to  the  emigrant.  //  you  want  to  get  patriotic,  mother, 
come  to  New  York. 

Phoebe. 

Dearest  Mother: 

Now  I'll  tell  you  about  Eleanor's  friends.  They  cer- 
tainly are  a  most  interesting  lot.  I  was  mistaken  in  thinking 
that  Mrs.  Raeburn's  circle  was  Bohemia.  She  says  it  isn't 
and  she's  right.  They're  all  too  old  and  rich  and  famous 
up  there.  But  here  nobody  is  old  and  all  are  far  from  rich. 
As  for  success — you  should  hear  them  talk.  The  ones  that 
interest  me  most  are  Wanda  Levvasond,  a  sculptor,  Ellen 


j8  Phoebe  Among  the  Bohemians 

Goddard,    an    actress,    Oliver    Ogden,    a    poet,    and    Carl 
Schmeiker,  a  violinist. 

Wanda  is  a  marvel — half  Russian  and  all  Socialist — with 
such  a  voice,  so  deep  and  yet  so — mother,  did  you  ever  hear 
a  voice  that  sounded  fragrant?  And  she's  got  such  great, 
deep,  burning,  excited  eyes — agate-on-fire  if  you  know  what 
I  mean !  She  took  me  one  day  to  a  class  in  modeling.  There 
were  at  least  twenty  young  girls  and  women,  all  in  long 
aprons,  clustered  in  a  circle  about  a  model-stand  on  which 
a  young  Italian  boy  was  posing.  Mother,  I  went  all 
through  Europe  and  came  home  to  find  Hawthorne's  "  Mar- 
ble Faun  "  living  on  the  East  Side  in  New  York.  When 
he  brushed  his  curls  away  from  his  ears,  my  heart  almost 
stood  still — I  expected  to  see  the  little  pointed  tips  that 
would  betray  him.  When  I  looked  at  all  those  clever 
women,  I  had  something  of  the  feeling  that  I  had  in  the 
Latin  Quartier  in  Paris.  I  wish  that  I  had  a  gift  and 
a  consuming  ambition — for  that's  what  Wanda's  got.  And 
how  do  I  know  but  what  I  have  and  have  never  found  it? 
I  often  think  of  that.  I  wish  you  could  have  seen  the 
difference  in  Wanda's  work  from  the  rest  and  the  deference 
with  which  they  all  treat  her.  Every  week  their  teacher 
gives  them  out  a  subject — something  abstract  like  Grief  or 
Fatigue  or  Joy — or  something  like  The  Dance  or  The 
Flame.  Wanda  always  brings  in  two  or  three  studies  of 
the  same  subject.  And  she  told  me  she  always  tries  to 
express  the  emotion  without  the  aid  of  a  single  accessory-^ 
just  by  the  look  in  the  face  and  the  play  of  muscles  in  the 
body.  And  she  does  it,  too.  But  how  she  works.  Such 
temperament  as  she's  got!  I've  heard  more  talk  about 
temperament  since  I've  been  here!     It  seems  you  can't  do 


Phoebe  Among  the  Bohemians  79 

much  in  any  artistic  line  without  temperament.  I  asked 
Tom  if  he  thought  I  had  a  temperament,  and  he  said,  "  I 
don't  know  what  you  call  it,  Phoebe,  but  you've  got  some- 
thing that  bowls  us  over."  I  think  that's  a  very  queer 
answer.  It  sounds  like  a  compliment,  but  it  sort  of  begs 
the  question. 

Ellen  Goddard  is  an  actress — at  least  she's  never  acted 
yet;  but  she's  determined  to  become  a  star.  And  somehow 
I  think  she'll  do  it  for,  apparently,  she  hasn't  another 
thought  in  her  head.  For  instance,  she  reads  Shakspere 
aloud  all  the  time — not  that  she  expects  to  play  Shakspere 
right  off,  but  for  the  practice  in  reciting  blank  verse.  She 
picks  out  sentences  from  her  reading  that  are  hard  to 
enunciate  and  spends  hours  trying  to  say  them  so  a  listener 
forty  miles  off  would  get  every  syllable.  Last  winter  she 
exchanged  English  lessons  for  French  with  a  girl  who's 
a  milliner  on  Fifth  Avenue  and  this  year  she's  reading 
Italian  with  a  young  boy  from  the  Settlement.  She's 
learned  to  trim  hats  and  make  her  own  gowns  so  as  to 
save  money.  And  she  exercises  all  the  time  to  keep  slim  and 
supple.  Now  that  she's  looking  for  a  job,  she  does  any- 
thing to  earn  money — poses  for  ads  and  acts  for  moving- 
picture  machines.  Eleanor  says  that  once  she  took  a  job 
as  housemaid.  Eleanor  says  she  feeds  her  every  time  she 
gets  a  chance. 

Oliver  Ogden — whom  every  one  calls  OUie — writes 
poetry.  You  talk  about  starving  in  a  garret  for  your  ideals 
— that's  what  he's  doing  all  right.  Eleanor  says  he  worries 
her  more  than  any  of  them,  because  you  might  just  as  well 
hope  to  get  a  living  picking  twinkles  off  the  stars  as  by 
verse.     She  says  the  magazines  use  poetry  only  as  "  fillers." 


80  Phoebe  Among  the  Bohemians 

Isn't  that  horrible,  mother?  And  doesn't  it  just  show  how 
debased  literature  has  become  in  this  country?  Ollie  looks 
like  a  daguerreotype.  He's  pale,  with  dark  eyes  and  fine 
dark  hair.  He's  very  gentle — you  feel  almost  too  gentle 
until  he  reads  his  poetry — then  you  know  he's  got  iron  in 
him  somewhere.  Don't  think  he's  showing  off — he's  very 
modest,  really.  He  reads  his — "  stuff,"  as  he  calls  it — be- 
cause they  all  beg  for  it.  I  told  him  I  didn't  know  any- 
thing about  poetry,  but  when  he  read  his  verse  I  felt  just 
the  way  I  used  to  feel  when  I  was  a  child  and  father  read 
fairy-tales  to  Ern  and  me — I  saw  things  and  heard  things 
that  I  couldn't  describe.  His  face  lighted  up  and  he  said 
that  that  was  nicer  than  an  acceptance. 

Carl  Schmeiker  is  a  wonder.  I  thought  I'd  heard  violin- 
ists before  but  I  was  mistaken;  I  never  had.  Others  play 
at  the  violin.  He  looks  like  a  young  Beethoven — very 
blonde  with  a  wonderful  high,  broad  forehead  and  eyes 
that  burn  through  to  your  very  soul. 

When  all  those  six  gifted  people  get  going — well,  it's 
the  talk  of  the  gods,  all  right.  Eleanor  is  just  as  gifted 
on  her  critical  side  as  any  of  them — she's  the  sanest  of 
the  lot.  I  notice  they  always  ask  Eleanor  her  opinion  of 
everything  before  they  ask  the  others.  Isn't  that  funny? 
Eleanor  had  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Raeburn  down  to  one  of  her 
Sunday  night  suppers.  At  first,  I  was  afraid  it  was  going 
to  be  a  failure.  For  you  know  how  the  Raeburns  seem 
to  emanate  luxury.  And  Mr.  Raeburn  looks  like  a  captain 
of  industry — he  can't  help  it.  But  they  were  both  so  simple 
and  sweet  that  after  a  while  the  geniuses  just  forgot  all 
about  them  and  talked  Socialism  just  as  if  there  weren't  a 
plutocrat  in  their  midst — the  "  co-operative  commonwealth," 


Phoebe  Among  the  Bohemians  81 

the  "  socialist  manifesto,"  sabotage  and  the  rest  of  it.  You 
should  have  seen  Mr.  Raeburn's  eyes  twinkle  and  Mrs. 
Raeburn's  eyes  shine. 

Ellen  Goddard  was  discouraged  that  day.  She  had  just 
made  the  round  of  the  agencies  and  there  was  nothing  doing 
as  usual.  Mrs.  Raeburn  told  her  some  experiences  that 
Mary  Allen,  the  great  English  actress,  had  undergone. 
They  certainly  were  terrible;  and  somehow  the  thought  of 
companionship  in  misfortune  with  one  so  great  seemed  to 
make  Ellen  chirp  right  up.  Mary  Allen  said,  for  instance, 
that  she  had  always  wanted  to  play  Juliet  and  every  night 
for  thirty  years  she  looked  in  her  mirror  and  wondered  if 
she  had  grown  too  old.  She  used  to  massage  her  face  like 
mad  to  keep  wrinkles  away.  When  she  was  forty-five,  she 
played  Juliet.  The  critics  all  commented  on  how  young  she 
looked,  but  Mary  Allen  said  her  first  wrinkle  began  to 
grow  the  night  after  she  opened  in  Juliet.  She  said  it 
wasn't  because  she'd  let  down  physically  in  her  care  of  her- 
self, but  because,  having  achieved  her  ambition,  she'd  let 
down  mentally. 

After  that,  the  geniuses  got  to  telling  what  they  were 
going  to  do  when  they  became  famous.  One  lovely  thing 
about  them  is  that,  although  they're  so  poor  and  discour- 
aged, they're  all  sure  they're  going  to  get  there  some  time. 
And  I  believe  they  will,  too.  But  how  you  have  to  work 
to  do  anything!  I  used  to  think  it  was  only  a  matter  of 
a  year  or  so.  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  never  made  a 
more  profound  remark  than  when  he  said,  "  Art  is  long." 
It's  all  of  that — and  then  some.  Well — to  return  to  the 
conversation — Ellen  said  when  she  was  a  star,  she  wasn't 
going  to  hog  the  stage.     She  was  going  to  give  the  young 


82  Phoebe  Among  the  Bohemians 

and  ambitious  girls  in  her  company  plenty  of  chance. 
Wanda  said  she  was  going  to  found  a  scholarship  for  young 
sculptors.  Ollie  said  he  was  going  to  start  a  magazine  in 
which  there  wouldn't  be  printed  one  blamed  thing  but 
poetry.  A  good  idea,  I  think,  and  I  bet  it  would  pay! 
Carl  said  he  was  going  to  give  poor  students  free  lessons 
on  the  violin.  Mrs.  Raeburn  told  them  before  she  left 
that  she  hadn't  enjoyed  anything  so  much  in  years.  She 
invited  them  all  to  come  and  see  her.  And  it  did  occur 
to  me  that  she  might  be  able  to  do  something  for  them. 
The  trouble  is  that  none  of  them  will  go.  Carl  says  the 
odor  of  opulence  is  fatal  to  artistry.  "  What  I  love  about 
them,"  Mrs.  Raeburn  said  to  me,  "  is  that  they're  all  talk- 
ing about  the  future.  The  people  who  come  to  see  me  are 
all  talking  about  the  past." 

No,  mother,  Sylvia  didn't  go  to  Baltimore  as  she  ex- 
pected. She's  at  home.  I  hear  from  her  about  every  other 
day.  Tug  has  been  going  over  there  quite  frequently. 
She's  introduced  him  to  that  peachy  Ethel  Locke — do  you 
remember  she  came  to  my  party?  Tug  seems  to  be  going 
about  a  lot  with  her  crowd.  I  leave  Eleanor's  to-morrow 
to  go  to  Augusta.  I've  had  such  a  nice  time.  At  first 
Eleanor  felt  badly  because  she  couldn't  introduce  me  to 
any  eligible  men.  As  if  I  cared  for  men!  If  you  want  to 
know  my  opinion  of  them,  I  think  they're  an  awfully  fickle 
lot.  Your  loving, 

Phoebe. 

That  night,  Eleanor  came  creeping  into  Phoebe's 
bed  for  their  last  midnight  talk. 

"  Eleanor,"  Phoebe  said,  "  do  you  know  youVe 


Phoebe  Among  the  Bohemians  83 

done  a  splendid  thing  for  me?  You've  given  me 
what  I  most  wanted  to  get  in  New  York — a  glimpse 
into  Bohemia." 

The  effect  of  this  simple  recognition  of  hospitality 
was  extraordinary.  Eleanor  began  to  laugh  until 
presently  she  grew  so  hysterical  that  the  bed  shook. 
"  Please  forgive  me,  Phoebe?"  she  concluded 
breathlessly,  "  but  somehow  it  just  struck  my  sense  of 
humor  the  right  way,  your  calling  this  Bohemia. 
Why,  my  dear,  it's  about  as  much  Bohemia  as  it  is 
Lilliput  or  Arcadia  or  Valhalla.  These  people 
haven't  the  time  nor  the  energy  nor  the  money  to  be 
Bohemians.  They're  all  engaged  in  a  very  athletic 
struggle  with  the  wolf  at  the  door.  Sometimes  I 
think  that's  the  trouble  with  them.  They  take  their 
ambitions  too  hard.  They're  so  deadly  in  earnest. 
They're  too  high-brow.  It's  almost  humorless. 
Tom's  the  only  one  who  seems  to  see  the  funny  side 
of  anything.  Well,  one  consolation — they're  bound 
to  get  there.    You  can't  beat  hard  work." 

"  My  goodness !  "  Phoebe  said  in  the  humbled 
tone  of  mortification,  "  if  this  isn't  Bohemia,  I'd 
like  to  know  what  is?  " 

Eleanor's  last  quiver  of  laughter  stopped  with 
a  jerk.  "  As  it  happens,  Phoebe,"  she  said  seri- 
ously, "  you're  going  right  into  it.  If  there  ever  was 
an  uncrowned  queen  of  Bohemia,  Augusta  Pugh's  it. 
She  lives  in  the  real  kingdom — among  the  happy- 
go-lucky,  down-at-the-elbow,  hand-to-mouth,  touch- 
and-go  kind — oh,  fascinating.  I've  heard  a  lot  about 
her  from  a  friend  of  Tom's.     Tom  and  I  always 


84  Phoebe  Among  the  Bohemians 

thought  her  the  cleverest  of  the  '  sob-squad  '  on 
4  The  Moment '  and  as  for  those  imaginary  inter- 
views she's  writing  now — I  simply  eat  them  up. 
Which  reminds  me,  Phoebe,  will  you  introduce  me 
to  her?  You  can't  possibly  want  to  see  Bohemia 
more  than  I  do." 

"  Why,  I'd  be  perfectly  delighted!  "  said  Phoebe 
cordially. 

Dearest  Mother: 

Here  I  am  with  Augusta.  And  if  before  I  had  any 
doubts  about  being  in  Bohemia,  I  certainly  have  none  now. 
I'm  right  in  the  center  of  the  kingdom,  close  to  the  throne 
and  living  with  what  Eleanor  calls  the  "  uncrowned 
queen."  The  Augusta  of  the  present  is  very  different  from 
the  girl  I  used  to  know.  In  the  first  place,  she's  improved 
in  her  looks.  She  wears  her  hair  in  a  wonderful  swirl 
about  her  head.  It  is  still  chestnut-color;  but  it  isn't  so 
fearfully  frizzly  as  it  used  to  be.  Her  eyelids  are  no  longer 
red  and  her  eyes  are  a  brilliant  china-blue.  Her  com- 
plexion is  sort  of  Scotchy — pink  and  white  and  freckled. 
She  dresses  very  simply,  always  in  black  and  white.  She's 
boyish-looking.  She's  got  an  air — not  self-assured  exactly, 
but  as  if  she  were  equal  to  any  situation.  You'd  turn  to 
look  at  her  anywhere.  She  lives  on  the  south  side  of 
Washington  Square,  in  a  perfect  duck  of  a  room  that  she 
calls  "  The  Garret."  And  it  is  a  garret.  It's  on  the  top 
floor,  slant-roofed  with  a  single  window,  very  little-paned 
and  broad-silled,  a  brick  fireplace  in  which  she  keeps  a 
roaring  fire,  and  a  great  long  closet  which  is  almost  a 
young  garret  in  itself.     It  contains  a  toy  sink,  a  bin  for 


Phoebe  Among  the  Bohemians  85 

wood,  and  many  hooks  to  hang  clothes  on.  Augusta  pa- 
pered "  The  Garret  "  herself  with  wrapping-paper — that 
tea-with-cream-in-it  color.  She  has  pinned  up  all  kinds  of 
sketches  on  the  walls.  Most  of  these  sketches  were  made 
by  her  art-student  friends  and  that  they  are  the  final  and 
extreme  limit  in  queerness,  both  in  line  and  color,  is  the 
mildest  thing  I  can  say  about  them.  There  are  a  few 
shelves  which  hold  books  and  china  and  bric-a-brac,  and  a 
couch  which  runs  across  two  sides  of  the  room  where  we 
sleep  (our  toes  meeting  at  the  corner),  a  table,  three  chairs, 
and  what  looks  like  a  slant-top  desk.  When  you  pull  the 
slant-top  down — what  do  you  suppose  you  find?  A  gas- 
stove. 

From  the  window,  we  get  a  cat-a-cornered  glimpse — be- 
tween a  line  of  beautifully  faded,  pinky-red,  ivy-hung 
houses  on  the  north  side  of  the  Square — up  Fifth  Avenue. 
And  if  you  think  that  any  painter  could  possibly  do  justice 
to  that  view  on  a  sunny  day  with  the  Avenue,  a  sea  of 
flashing  black  motors,  accented  here  and  there  by  the  great 
green  busses,  lumbering  along  like  excited  slugs,  the  yellow 
taxis  scuttling  about  like  distracted  beetles  and  the  whole 
scene  dotted  with  the  red  motor-numbers — or  on  rainy  days 
when,  as  Augusta  says,  the  trees  in  the  Park  below  seem 
caught  like  seaweed  in  a  great  tide  of  mist — or  at  dusk  of 
a  damp  day  when  the  wet  asphalt  reflects  all  the  sparkles 
and  shimmers  down  to  the  last  glimmer  of  a  gleam — purple 
electric  lights,  yellow  gas-lights,  red  tail-lights  of  the  auto- 
mobiles— or  at  dusk  of  a  clear  night  when  the  Avenue  lamps 
look  like  pearl  sequins  embroidered  on  the  sky,  with  the 
office-buildings  all  illuminated  and  glittery  and  Moonface 
shining  round  and  gold  near  the  top  of  the  beautiful  white 


86  Phoebe  Among  the  Bohemians 

column   of  the   tower — well,   I   tell   you,   he  couldn't — not 
even  if  he  were  Velasquez. 

But  here  I  am  wasting  time  on  a  view,  when  I've  done 
so  much  and  seen  so  much  that  life  has  become  a  sort  of 
scrimmage  of  experience.  Augusta  lives  in  a  perfect  whirl. 
In  the  first  place,  we  get  up  any  old  time,  eat  when  it 
occurs  to  us,  and  never  at  the  same  place  twice,  go  to  bed — 
well,  generally  when  there's  nothing  else  to  do — although 
it's  very  hard  to  find  a  time  when  there's  nothing  doing 
in  the  New  York  that  Augusta  knows.  Either  Augusta  gets 
the  breakfast  in  the  chafing-dish  or  we  go  to  a  little  cafe 
a  few  doors  away.  Then,  often  we  market  or  shop.  If  we 
buy  meat,  we  go  to  a  fat-faced,  rosy-cheeked,  golden-mus- 
tached  German  butcher — who  joshes  us  in  beautiful  broken 
English  without  a  T  or  a  W  anywhere  in  it.  We  buy 
groceries  of  a  person  Augusta  calls  "  the  yid  "  and  he  is 
certainly  the  politest  man  I  ever  met  in  my  life.  If  we 
want  fruit,  Augusta  takes  me  to  "  the  wop,"  the  hand- 
somest Italian  I  ever  saw — with  a  wife  who  looks  like  a 
madonna,  a  baby  who  looks  like  a  Raphael  cherub,  and  a 
picturesque  old  father  who  must  have  been  a  "  hooker " 
in  Venice.  Twice  while  I  have  been  here,  Augusta  has 
had  to  buy  extra  china — for  company.  We  bought  the 
first  set  off  "  the  chink "  down  in  Chinatown  and  the 
second  set  off  "  the  Jap  "  on  Fifth  Avenue.  And  she  is 
having  a  chair  that  belonged  to  her  grandmother  re-up- 
holstered by  an  old  Frenchman  who  has  the  manners  of 
a  marquis.  Augusta  says  that  sometime  she's  going  to 
write  a  story  called  "  The  Alien,"  about  a  boy  who  was 
brought  up  in  New  York  and  never  met  an  American 
until  he  went  to  Boston. 


Phoebe  Among  the  Bohemians  87 

After  we've  done  our  shopping  and  marketing,  we  come 

back  and  Augusta  writes.     Later  we  go  to  Park  Row  (the 

downtown  Newspaper  Row)  or  to  the  Second  Flat-iron  (the 

uptown  Newspaper  Row).     Downtown  is  wonderful.    The 

buildings  are  so  high  and  so  solid — somehow  you  get  the 

impression  that,  in  the  beginning,  Manhattan  was  streaked 

with  parallel  cliffs  of  stone  and  that  the  architects  carved 

the  buildings  out  of  them.     And  yet,  every  now  and  then, 

you'll  come  across  little  wooden  houses  that  are  so  quaint 

and  Dutchy  you  just  love  them  on  sight.     The  roar  in  the 

downtown    streets    is    tremendous — Augusta   says    it's    like 

Niagara.     And  at  noon,  when  the  entire  working  popula- 

1 

tion  turns  out  onto  the  sidewalks,  you  experience  a  sensa- 
tion that  I  simply  can't  describe — it's  so  polyglot.  It 
frightens  you;  for  you  feel  as  if  there  never  were  any  Pil- 
grims and  Puritans  and  that  the  Declaration  of  Independ- 
ence must  have  been  a  dream.  As  for  Wall  Street — well, 
not  since  I  saw  the  Vatican  in  Rome  have  I  got  such  an 
impression  of  mystery  and  power. 

When  we  go  to  the  "  Times  "  Building,  we  always  walk 
up  Broadway.  I  love  that.  When  I  was  with  the  Rae- 
burns,  I  saw  Broadway  only  at  night.  Augusta  says  that 
that  is  a  very  hectic  aspect  of  New  York  life.  But  in  the 
daytime  it's  perfectly  marvelous — that  is,  if  you  have  a  guide 
like  Augusta,  whose  newspaper  experiences  have  brought 
her  into  contact  with  all  kinds  of  strange  people.  She 
points  them  out  to  me  faster  than  I  can  look  at  them — 
actors,  actresses,  show-girls,  chorusers,  "  broilers,"  opera 
people,  vaudevillians,  managers,  playwrights,  politicians, 
millionaires,  detectives.  Once  she  called  my  attention  to  a 
gentle-looking,  white-haired  man  and  asked  me  to  guess  his 


88  Phoebe  Among  the  Bohemians 

profession.  I  said  an  actor  or  a  clergyman.  She  said  he 
was  a  very  famous  confidence-man — Billy  Whaley. 

Sometimes  we  visit  magazine-offices;  for  Augusta  writes 
fiction  also.  When  we  went  into  the  first  editorial  sanctum, 
I  had  the  surprise  of  my  life — for  the  editor  was  a  young 
man.  More  than  that  he  was  a  perfect  dear,  with  such 
nice  eyes.  He  asked  me  how  I  liked  New  York.  And 
when  I  told  him  my  impressions  he  asked  me  if  I  wouldn't 
write  them  for  him  just  the  way  I  said  them.  Of  course 
I  said  no,  and  I  guess  I  never  was  so  frightened  in  my  life. 
I  don't  know  why  it  is,  but  when  anybody  says  the  word 
editor  to  me,  I  always  think  of  Demosthenes.  And  I  get 
a  sort  of  mental  picture  of  a  venerable  old  man  with  a  long 
white  beard.  But  Augusta  says  that  none  of  the  editors 
in  New  York  are  venerable  and  there  are  at  least  three 
for  whom  she  will  bear  an  unrequited  affection  to  her 
grave.  Goodness,  if  I'd  known  that,  I'd  have  taken  up  a 
literary  career  myself.  I  told  Augusta  about  meeting 
Blanche  Hokeby,  and  she  said,  "  Just  think,  she  gets  ten 
cents  a  word.  Pirate !  "  It  seems  they  pay  by  the  word. 
That  being  the  case,  you  bet  I'd  run  in  tons  of  extra  ands 
and  whens  and  ifs  and  buts,  wouldn't  you,  mother  dearest? 

We  have  lunch  wherever  we  happen  to  be.  Then,  late 
in  the  afternoon,  Augusta's  "  gang,"  as  she  calls  them,  begin 
to  rally  around  her.  I  pause  here  to  take  a  long  breath. 
I  don't  know  how  I'm  going  to  describe  these  people  to 
you.  For  they  might  be  bogles  and  brownies  and  trolls  and 
nymphs  and  nixies  and  genies  and  gnomes  and  mermaids  for 
all  the  resemblance  they  bear  to  anybody  we  know  in  May- 
wood.  In  the  first  place,  they  aren't  half  so  grown  up  as 
little  Gracie  Seaver.    They  have  no  more  sense  of  responsi- 


Phoebe  Among  the  Bohemians  89 

bility  than  so  many  white  mice.  They  work  at  all  kinds 
of  things — that  is,  when  they  do  anything — which  is,  Au- 
gusta says,  only  when  they  can't  "  beg,  borrow,  or  steal  a 
meal  off  somebody  else."  It  seems  that  this  is  the  art- 
student  end  of  town — billions  of  them  have  studios  in  or 
about  MacDougal  Alley.  They  come — girls  and  men — 
piling  over  every  afternoon.  I  couldn't  begin  to  enumerate 
them.  Then  a  lot  of  actresses  out  of  a  job  visit  here.  I've 
come  to  the  conclusion  that  half  the  population  of  New 
York  is  looking  for  work  and  the  majority  of  them  are 
stage-folk.  Besides  that,  there  are  a  whole  lot  of  people 
whom    Augusta    meets    in    her    newspaper    work.     And 

then 

But  I  guess  this  will  have  to  be  all  for  now,  for  I'm 
tired. 

Your  loving, 

Phoebe. 

Dearest  Mother: 

I  have  begun  to  get  the  people  who  come  to  Augusta's 
unmixed  and  to  pick  out  from  them  the  most  interesting. 
Of  all  I  think  I  like  Dick  Baker  best.  Augusta  says  that 
he  would  be  the  greatest  reporter  in  the  world,  if  he  weren't 
a  "  booze-artist."  Mother,  that  means  he  drinks  too  much — 
isn't  it  dreadful?  He's  the  kindest,  sweetest,  gentlest, 
loveliest  being  you  ever  saw — half  Irish.  He  tells  us  stories 
about  his  assignments  and,  always,  he's  so  sympathetic  with 
the  people  in  the  case — no  matter  how  wicked  and  cruel 
they've  been.  Why,  I  always  thought  reporters  were  per- 
fectly heartless.  But  I  couldn't  be  afraid  of  Dick  Baker 
any  more  than  I  could  of  you.     I'd  tell  him  positively  any- 


90  Phoebe  Among  the  Bohemians 

thing  that  he  wanted  to  know.  Augusta  says  that's  the  way 
everybody  feels  about  him  and  that's  why  he's  such  a  won- 
derful reporter — that,  taken  with  the  fact  that  New  York 
has  never  made  him  the  least  bit  hard  or  cynical  or  bitter. 

Then,  there's  a  newspaper  woman  that  I  adore — a  great 
big  creature,  named  Molly  Edwards — who  must  have  been 
handsome  once  and  still  has  a  smile  that — well,  I  know  the 
heart  doesn't  beat  that  could  resist  that  smile.  Everybody 
loves  her  and  everybody  takes  care  of  her.  She  has  no 
faculty  whatever  for  looking  out  for  herself.  "  What  will 
become  of  her  when  she  gets  old  ?  "  I  asked.  "  Well,"  Au- 
gusta said,  "  I've  given  up  worrying  about  Molly.  She 
may  end  her  days  in  a  poorhouse,  it  is  true.  On  the  other 
hand,  she  is  just  as  likely  to  marry  a  millionaire.  She  re- 
fused one  last  summer." 

There  are  four  boy-artists  who  come  here  who  entertain 
me  enormously.  Oh,  mother,  they  are  so  funny!  They 
live  in  one  small  studio  together;  each  has  a  corner.  They 
call  one  the  "  cowboy  "  artist,  the  second,  the  "  bulldog  " 
artist,  the  third,  the  "  pretty-girl  "  artist,  and  the  last,  the 
"  ship "  artist.  And  the  way  they  josh  and  jolly  each 
other — mother,  it's  a  perfect  wheeze!  They  have  to  keep 
their  various  belongings  under  their  beds  because  there's 
no  other  place  for  them.  The  "  pretty-girl  "  artist  told  me 
that  the  "  cowboy  "  artist  prefers  to  keep  his  on  his  bed, 
where  he  can  get  at  them  easily.  He  says  that  there  are 
all  kinds  of  cowboy  things  there — a  saddle,  high  boots,  a 
Stetson  hat,  "  chaps,"  a  slicker,  lassos,  guns  of  every  de- 
scription— it's  simply  crowded  with  them.  The  "  cowboy  " 
artist  is  too  lazy  to  take  any  of  them  off  when  he  goes  to 
bed,  so  he  just  worms  himself  under  the  clothes  and  sleeps 


Phoebe  Among  the  Bohemians  91 

with  all  that  truck  on  him — and  sleeps  like  a  baby.  Can 
you  beat  it? 

The  four  women  who  interest  me  most,  next  to  Molly 
Edwards,  are  Angela  Ade,  Jane  Daly,  Ruthie  Stanley,  and 
"  Jimmie  "  Tench. 

Angela  is  a  suffragette.  Oh,  mother,  she's  simply  hot 
on  the  subject — and  what  she  doesn't  know  about  it  would 
hardly  fill  a  thimble.  She's  taken  me  to  a  lot  of  suffrage 
meetings  and  if  it  hasn't  been  a  revelation!  Why,  I  always 
thought  that  suffragists  were  queer  people  that  you'd  hate 
to  have  round.  But  in  New  York,  all  kinds  of  women  are 
suffragists — even  society  women.  In  fact,  it's  the  thing  to 
be  a  suffragette.  And  when  you  come  down  to  it,  mother, 
taxation  without  representation  is  tyranny  and  there's  no 
going  back  of  that.  Why,  Angela  can  get  right  up  at  any 
time  and  address  a  meeting.  She's  talked  from  soap  boxes 
on  the  street.  She's  marched  in  the  suffrage  parade  and 
picketed  in  East  Side  strikes  and  been  arrested.  She's  very 
little  and  blonde  and  frail  and  delicate,  but  with  such  fire — 
she  looks  like  an  angel  but  an  angel  with  a  temper — if  you 
know  what  I  mean. 

Jane  Daly  is  what  Augusta  calls  an  "  actorine."  She  is 
so  pretty  and  fascinating  that  I  cannot  keep  my  eyes  off 
of  her — the  darlingest  little  slim  figure,  great  big  mis- 
chievous brown  eyes  and  a  nose  that  turns  right  up.  She 
can  imitate  anybody  or  anything  on  the  earth  that  she's 
ever  seen.  She's  been  all  over  this  country.  And  last  year 
she  saved  up  enough  money  to  go  abroad  on  the  cheap, — 
and  went — explored  London  and  Paris  all  by  herself.  Did 
you  ever  hear  anything  like  her  courage?  Why,  mother, 
when   I  compare  myself  with  some  of  these  girls,   I   feel 


92  Phoebe  Among  the  Bohemians 

ashamed,  I'm  so  useless.  Jane  is  out  of  an  engagement 
now — so  she's  posing  for  the  "  pretty-girl  "  artist.  I  asked 
her  if  it  wasn't  wonderfully  inspiring  and  stimulating  going 
about  and  seeing  the  managers  when  she's  out  of  a  job. 
And  she  said,  "  Pardon  me  if  I  seem  to  give  you  the  haw- 
haw,  but "     Mother,  she  said  if  there  was  anything  she 

hated  and  loathed  it  was  going  to  interview  a  manager — 
she  despised  it.  And  if  she  had  her  way,  all  theaters  would 
be  subsidized  by  the  government  and  managers  would  be 
abolished. 

Ruthie  Stanley  is  a  girl-editor.  That  is  to  say,  she's 
assistant  editor  on  "  To-morrow."  She  is  a  great  big, 
stunning-looking  brunette  creature,  like  a  Greek  statue  that's 
been  dipped  in  coffee.  I  asked  her  if  authors  weren't  the 
most  wonderful  people  in  the  world,  and  she  said,  "  Not 
unless  you  say  it  quick."  Mother,  I  never  was  so  dis- 
illusioned in  my  life.  She  says  that  writers  are  just  as  fond 
of  money  as  anybody  else  and  perhaps  more  so.  She  says 
they'll  haggle  over  a  few  cents  in  a  perfectly  disgraceful  way 
and  their  word  means  nothing.  Why,  I  had  always  sup- 
posed that  people  wrote  for  the  love  of  their  art  and  that 
they  considered  it  a  privilege  to  give  their  work  to  the 
world.  I  wish  you  could  have  heard  Ruthie  roar  when 
I  said  that.  She  said  they  wouldn't  give  an  "  and  "  or  a 
"  but "  or  a  "  when  "  to  save  the  entire  sidereal  system 
from  destruction. 

"  Jimmie  "  Tench  is  a  woman  press-agent.  She  is  big  and 
comfortable  and  soft-voiced  and  maternal-looking — my  idea 
of  a  trained  nurse.  And  oh,  mother,  you  can  have  no  idea 
what  a  clever  person  she  is  and  how  hard  she  has  to  work. 
She  seems  to  know  every  newspaper  man  and  every  actor 


:"»  ■£--SCrfoBbjfX 


Sometimes  when  the  "  gang  "  is  here  we  have  dinner  in 
"  The  Garret.' ' 


Phoebe  Among  the  Bohemians  93 

and  actress  in  New  York.  When  I  asked  her  if  it  wasn't 
wonderful  meeting  actors  and  actresses  all  the  time,  she 
asked  me  to  excuse  her  while  she  fainted  away  for  a  mo- 
ment. Then  she  said  if  she  had  her  choice,  she  would 
never  lay  eyes  again  on  anything  that  had  any  connection 
with  the  theater  whatever — not  even  the  people  who  printed 
the  programs. 

Well,  mother,  when  Augusta  gets  to  railing  against 
editors  and  Jane  against  managers  and  Ruth  Stanley  against 
authors  and  "  Jimmie  "  against  actors — it  is  certainly  one 
grand  knock-fest.  It  quite  troubled  me  for  awhile  until  I 
spoke  of  it  to  Eleanor.  And  Eleanor  says  that  the  reason 
is  that  you  naturally  distrust  anybody  with  whom  you  have 
financial  dealings.  She  says  she  doesn't  know  why  it  is,  but 
there  is  something  about  money  that  brings  out  the  worst 
that's  in  people. 

I  should  have  told  you,  by  the  way,  that  I  had  Eleanor 
to  tea  and  that  she  and  Augusta  immediately  took  a  great 
fancy  to  each  other.  Everybody  here  likes  Eleanor.  She's 
so  pretty  and  clever  and  efficient  and  wise.  Then  her 
clothes  are  so  smart;  she's  posing  for  half  the  artists — 
they're  crazy  about  the  way  she  dresses. 

Sometimes  when  the  "  gang  "  is  here,  we  have  dinner  in 
"  The  Garret."  In  that  case,  everybody  takes  hold  and 
helps  cook — men  and  women  alike.  The  men  put  aprons 
on  or  pin  towels  round  their  necks  and  wash  the  dishes  and 
clean  up  as  a  matter  of  course.  On  that  score,  I  can 
recommend  a  Bohemian  husband — he  is  certainly  a  handy 
thing  to  have  about  the  house.  And  oh,  what  good  things 
we  have  to  eat.  When  I  get  home  I  am  going  to  cook  some 
Italian  spaghetti  and  some  Hungarian  goulashes  that  will 


94  Phoebe  x^mong  the  Bohemians 

make  your  hair  curl.  If  we  go  out  to  dinner — and  we 
can  only  by  pooling  all  the  money  in  the  crowd — we  go  to 
a  different  place  every  night.  I  have  gone  to  a  Chinese 
restaurant  where  I  ate  chop  suey  until  I  was  ashamed 
of  myself,  to  a  Turkish  restaurant  where  all  the  food 
tasted  as  if  it  had  been  perfumed  and  was  delicious  beyond 
description,  to  a  German  restaurant  where  the  food  was  so 
much  easier  to  eat  than  to  pronounce  that  I  can't  tell  you 
anything  about  it,  to  a  Hungarian  restaurant  where  the 
wine  was  changed  with  every  course  and  you  served  yourself 
from  an  extraordinary  glass  arrangement  at  the  end  of  the 
table,  to  a  French  restaurant  where  there  were  forty  billion 
hors  d'oeuvres,  to  an  Italian  restaurant  where — I  guess  I  like 
the  Italian  cooking  best,  although  the  chicken  does  taste 
like  a  warmed-over  hot-water  bottle  and  the  salad  does  look 
as  if  it  had  been  out  all  night  in  the  rain.  But  the  soup 
and  the  macaroni  and  the  zambayone,  oh,  how  I  love  it! 
We  sit  in  the  restaurant  all  the  evening  having  a  good  time. 
Sometimes  we  go  to  bed  at  twelve,  sometimes  later.  Once 
it  was  two.  Now  don't  let  father  worry  about  that;  for, 
mother,  there  is  not  one  of  these  people  that  you  would  not 
like.  And  you'd  love  poor  Dick  Baker,  the  "  booze-fighter." 
For  no  woman  could  help  loving  and  pitying  him.  Augusta 
says  it  is  only  a  question  of  Dick  Baker's  finding  the  right 
girl  before  it  is  too  late.  They  made  me  realize  all  of 
a  sudden  what  an  influence  a  woman  can  have  over  a  man. 
My  goodness,  it's  marvelous!  I  have  thought  so  many 
times  that  if  I  were  a  man  I'd  ask  Dick  Baker  to  come  over 
to  Maywood  and  stay  until  he  got  straightened  out.  But 
of  course  a  girl  can't  do  a  thing  like  that. 

I  am   enjoying  myself,   mother  dearest.      My   month   is 


Phoebe  Among  the  Bohemians  95 

nearly  up,  but  I  may  stay  longer.  I  guess  I'd  better  finish 
this  letter  now.  It's  very  late  and  I've  just  found  a  letter 
from  Sylvia  among  my  mail.  Somehow  I  always  feel  like 
answering  her  letters  the  moment  I  get  them — she  has  so 
much  news  about  my  friends — Tug  and  Ethel  Locke  and 
the  others.  Your  loving, 

Phoebe. 

As  Phoebe  picked  up  her  letter,  Augusta  suddenly 
stopped  banging  her  typewriter  and  leaned  back  in 
her  chair. 

"  Augusta,"  Phoebe  said  impulsively,  "  do  you 
know  I'm  having  an  awfully  good  time  here?  This 
is  the  first  time  in  my  life  that  I've  ever  lived  in  Bo- 
hemia. I  don't  know  but  what  I'll  find  something 
to  do  here  in  New  York  and  stay  on  all  winter. 
Father  won't  object,  I  know.  I  wouldn't  be  sur- 
prised if  I  could  make  something  of  myself  in  this 
atmosphere.  I'm  sure  I  could  write  stories  as  good 
as  some  I  see  in  the  magazines." 

As  she  spoke,  Phoebe's  fingers  pulled  mechanic- 
ally at  the  flap  of  her  letter,  tore  it  open.  Before 
Augusta  answered,  her  eyes  mechanically  ran 
through  the  opening  lines : 

Dear  Phoebe: 

Tug's  state  of  mind  is  certainly  improving.  Ethel  Locke 
has  invited  him  to  go  on  a  motoring,  week-end  excursion 
with  them.  He  hasn't  said  yes,  yet.  But  I  think  he  will. 
I'm  urging  him  to  do  it.  Ethel's  crowd  is  such  a  jolly  one 
and  she's  so  bright  herself.     She 


96  Phoebe  Among  the  Bohemians 

Augusta's  long  slender  hands  were  smoothing  her 
brow.  Her  oval  finger-tips  came  to  rest  for  an  in- 
stant on  her  tired  eyelids.  When  she  removed  them, 
her  eyes  gleamed  bright  with  decision. 

"  Phoebe,"  she  said,  "  IVe  been  dying  to  have  a 
talk  with  you  ever  since  youVe  been  here.  And  I'm 
going  to  get  it  off  my  chest  now,  if  you  don't  mind. 
In  the  first  place,  perhaps  you  remember  that  when 
you  wrote  to  me,  it  was  over  a  week  before  I  replied 
to  your  letter.  That  wasn't  press  of  work,  as  I  said. 
It  was  mostly  because  I  didn't  want  to  see  you.  Do 
you  know,  way  back  when  we  were  girls  together, 
I  was  jealous  of  you — horribly  jealous?  Not  so 
much  of  your  looks,  although  you  were  pretty  nearly 
as  much  of  a  pippin  then  as  you  are  now.  Nor  of 
your  abilities,  for  I  was  your  equal  there.  But  be- 
cause Tug  Warburton  had  a  case  on  you.  I  was 
crazy  about  Tug,  myself,  in  those  days.  If  I  could 
have  got  him  away  from  you,  I  would  have — with- 
out a  scruple.  But  I  couldn't.  I  don't  apologize 
now  for  that.  For  most  girls  are  bounders  and 
most  boys  cads.  A  code  of  honor  develops  only 
with  character  and  experience." 

Augusta  paused  a  moment.  Then  her  hands  went 
behind  her  head  and  clasped  there.  She  sank  into 
a  position  of  greater  ease. 

"  You  know  what  happened.  After  two  years  at 
college,  I  went  to  work  for  a  Boston  newspaper. 
Then  I  came  to  New  York.  I've  never  seen  Tug 
since  until  he  came  on  two  months  ago.  Then  I 
met  him  on  the  street.     I'd  never  forgotten  him. 


Phoebe  Among  the  Bohemians  97 

For  a  reason  that  I'll  tell  you  later,  I  wanted  to 
find  out  whether  I  was  infatuated  with  him  or  not. 
I  invited  him  to  call.  He  came.  I  invited  him 
again.  He  came  again.  The  long  and  the  short  of 
it  was  that  we  went  to  dinner  or  to  the  theater 
every  night  of  his  stay  here.  Don't  get  any  impres- 
sion that  Tug  was  flirting  with  me.  He  wasn't. 
But  don't  get  any  impression  that  I  wasn't  flirting 
with  Tug.  I  was — like  a  house  afire.  It  was  plain 
to  me  what  the  situation  was.  You  had  just  thrown 
him  down; — he  was  as  blue  as  indigo.  Not  that  he 
told  me  a  word  of  this.  It  was  what  he  didn't  tell 
me  that  flashed  the  signal." 

Augusta  suddenly  abandoned  her  easy  attitude. 
She  bent  forward,  her  long  slim  hands  folded. 
"  Now  I'll  tell  you  why  I  flirted  with  him.  There's 
a  reporter  on  '  The  Moment '  who's  been  asking  me 
to  marry  him.  I  wouldn't  say  yes  until  I  was  sure 
I  was  all  through  with  the  Tug  infatuation.  I 
proved  that  to  myself  all  right,  and  I'm  going  to  get 
married  in  June.  I'm  going  to  cut  out  all  this  foot- 
less life  and  take  a  little  place  over  in  Jersey  and 
make  a  big  editor  of  him.  I  can  do  it.  He's  a 
person.  I'm  only  mediocre,  you  know.  I  write 
fiction,  but  very  bad  fiction.  But,  working  in  har- 
ness with  him,  I  can  pull  off  something  big  and  I 
know  it.  Now,  Phoebe,  I've  been  frank  about  my- 
self. I'm  going  to  be  frank  about  you.  You're  not 
a  genius  any  more  than  I  am.  You're  a  true  sport 
and  a  thoroughbred  and  you've  got  personality,  but 
you're  only  an  average  girl,  after  all.    Here  in  New 


98  Phoebe  Among  the  Bohemians 

York  you  wouldn't  be  one-two-three  with  the  big 
people  that  are  coming  all  the  time.  You  go  back 
to  Maywood  and  marry  a  Maywood  man.  You'll 
be  a  power  in  that  town.  You'll  run  it  socially — 
and  you'll  do  a  heap  of  good.  You'll  accomplish 
things  as  you  never  could  here.  I'm  going  to  tell 
you  one  more  thing — not  because  I'm  impertinent, 
but  because  I  like  you.  I  didn't  make  a  dent  on 
Tug — I  couldn't.  He's  still  in  the  condition  where 
you've  scratched  off  every  other  woman's  face  for 
him.  He's  like  that  idiot  in  '  As  You  Like  It '  who 
kept  calling,  •  Phoebe,  Phoebe,  Phoebe !  '  But 
I  got  one  thing  out  of  it,  and  I'm  telling  it  to  you, 
Phoebe,  so  you  won't  make  any  mistake.  The  next 
attractive  girl  who  goes  oat  after  Tug  is  going  to 
get  him.     See?  " 

For  several  minutes  Phoebe  did  not  speak.  Au- 
gusta stared  at  her.  Under  the  tangle  in  her  brow, 
Phoebe's  look  was  riveted  on  the  further  wall  as  if 
she  saw,  in  letters  of  fire,  some  grim  warning  written 
there.  The  silence  became  thick,  almost  tangible. 
Then  suddenly,  Phoebe  broke  it.  "  Augusta,"  she 
said  simply,  "  thank  you." 

11  That's  all  right,"  Augusta  said  in  an  offhand 
way.  And  a  little  later,  as  if  to  change  the  subject, 
she  added,  "  Oh,  by  the  way,  Phoebe,  that's  all  dead 
wrong,  that  idea  you've  got  that  this  is  Bohemia. 
It  isn't.  You  have  to  have  something  on  you  to  be 
a  Bohemian,  and  none  of  these  people  have  any  real 
abilities  or  any  real  ambition.  Bohemia  is  the  land 
of  big  people  who've  found  themselves.     Did  you 


Phoebe  Among  the  Bohemians  99 

ever  read  about  that  crowd  Zola  collected — the  De 
Goncourts  and  De  Maupassant  and  the  rest? 
That's  my  idea  of  Bohemia — genius  tested  and  sure 
of  itself.  Oh,  I'll  tell  you  who  lives  in  a  real,  a  per- 
fect Bohemia.  That's  your  friend,  Mrs.  Raeburn. 
Say,  I'd  love  to  know  her,  Phoebe.  Will  you  take 
me  there  some  time?  " 

"  Why,  I'd  be  perfectly  delighted,"  said  Phoebe 
cordially. 

Dearest  Father  and  Mother: 

Do  you  know  what  Bohemia  is?  It's  what  you  haven't 
got.  Do  you  know  where  Bohemia  is?  It's  where  you 
don't  live.  It's  anything  but  what  you  have,  any  place  but 
where  you  are.  Do  you  know  what  most  looks  like  Bohemia 
to  me  now?  Maywood.  And  you  two  are  the  king  and 
queen  of  it.  I'm  coming  back  on  the  ten  o'clock  limited 
to-morrow  to  live  forever  in  my  Bohemia. 

Phoebe. 

P.S. — I  wrote  Tug  to  come  in  with  the  machine  to  bring 
me  home.    I'll  be  there  about  five. 


CHAPTER  IV 
ERNEST  LAYS  DOWN  HIS  ARMS 

DEAREST  Sylvia: 
Mother  got  a  letter  from  Ern  last  night  in  which 
he  announced  that  he  was  going  to  bring  four  boys 
home  from  Princeton  for  the  Easter  vacation.  Ordinarily  it 
lasts  only  from  the  Thursday  before  Easter  until  the  Mon- 
day after;  but  by  a  system  of  saving  up  cuts,  they've  spread 
it  into  a  week.  With  Ern,  that  makes  five  kid-boys  in 
the  house.  Five — count  'em — FIVE.  Isn't  it  sickening?  I 
feel  as  if  I  were  taking  in  kindergartens  to  train.  For, 
like  you,  Sylvia,  I  have  nothing  but  indifference  and  an 
amused  contempt  for  boys.  However,  they  needn't  inter- 
fere one  atom  with  you  and  me.  In  the  first  place,  boys 
of  that  age  generally  hate  girls;  but  if  the  little  beasts 
show  the  faintest  sign  of  taking  notice,  I  guess  I  can  hand 
them  the  best  freezing-out  act  ever  seen  on  this  or  any 
other  stage.  And  you,  too,  Sylvia,  my  love,  can  turn  a 
pretty  handy  trick  with  the  ice-pitcher. 

Mother  and  I  have  talked  it  over,  and  we've  put  five 
cots  in  the  big  room  at  the  top  of  the  house — the  one  we 
call  the  Gym.  It  looks  like  a  hospital  ward.  You  and  I 
will  have  the  floor  below  all  to  ourselves.  We  will  break- 
fast in  my  room.  Then  you  can  work  all  morning  on 
your  thesis.  I'll  bring  your  lunch  up  to  you — I  have  a 
great  pull  with  Flora.     And  the  girls  will  probably  invite 

ioo 


Ernest  Lays  down' His1  ArrriS  '       Yoi 

us  out  to  dinner  so  often  that  we  won't  have  to  see  the 
kindergarten  only  now  and  then. 

Yours  disgustedly, 

Phoebe. 


"  Say,  Mart,"  said  Cinders,  addressing  Ernest 
Martin,  the  night  before  the  quintette  left  Prince- 
ton, "  do  I  understand  that  you  guarantee  this  ex- 
pedition to  the  home  of  your  ancestors  to  be  ab- 
solutely non-fussing,  as  it  were,  so  to  speak,  never- 
theless and  notwithstanding?  " 

"  Child,  you  guess  the  truth,"  Ernest  reassured 
him;  "  it  is  to  be  skirtless.  In  the  words  of  the  bard, 
there  will  be  lack  of  woman's  weeping,  there  will 
be  lack  of  woman's  tears." 

"  Io  triumphe,  banzai,  hail,  hip,  hip,  hip  and  loud 
cheers !  "  said  Cinders. 

Red-headed  was  Cinders — little  and  clever,  always 
asking  questions,  and  usually  answering  them  himself. 

"  How  can  it  be  skirtless,"  Sandy  Williston  re- 
marked, "  if  you  have  a  sister?  " 

Sandy  was  long,  lank,  and  preternaturally  solemn 
as  to  full  black  eyes  behind  huge  round  glasses.  He 
now  turned  the  double  glare  of  his  convex  gaze  on 
a  picture  of  Phoebe,  which,  framed  in  an  oval  of 
gold,  had  appeared  in  Ernest's  room  at  Christmas- 
time. The  others  looked  at  it  also,  and  with  vary- 
ing degrees  of  a  premeditated  indifference.  As  it 
happened,  their  semi-circular  group  had  made  it  the 
center  of  tri-weekly  smoke-talks.  And  as  they  puffed, 
they  considered  it. 


102  Ernest  Lays  down  His  Arms 

The  picture — the  last  cry  in  fashionable  photog- 
raphy— represented  a  slender  girl  in  an  evening-dress 
and  huge  lacy  mob-cap.  Perhaps — was  it  a  trick  of 
the  artisan — the  innocent  big  eyes  were  a  little  sad, 
the  prettily-curved  mouth  a  little  drooped.  And  cer- 
tainly the  feminine  note  had  been  emphasized  and  ac- 
cented. The  portrait  included,  for  instance,  such  de- 
tails as  toy-hands  concealed  by  gloves,  long,  soft, 
prettily-wrinkled  and  holding  a  rose,  the  tip  of  a 
satin  slipper  pointing  from  under  a  swirl  of  skirt.  It 
included  such  feminine  properties  nearby  as  an  even- 
ing-coat draped  over  her  chair,  a  triangular  object 
that  was  a  half-opened  fan,  a  square  of  lace  masquer- 
ading as  a  handkerchief.  But,  on  the  whole,  the 
figure  of  a  robust  litheness,  a  delicate  muscularity, 
connoted  spirit,  impulse  and  enthusiasm. 

Ernest  glanced  at  the  picture,  too,  and  realized 
for  the  first  time  since  he  placed  it  on  the  wall  that 
it  still  hung  there.  Also,  in  passing  he  was  hit  with 
the  wonder  that  always  struck  him  when  he  saw 
that  other  men  considered  a  man's  sister  as  a  girl. 
To  Ernest,  the  female  sex  divided  itself  automatically 
into  two  departments,  his  mother  and  Phoebe  in  one, 
the  rest  of  created  women  in  the  other.  "  Oh, 
Phoebe!"  he  said  in  a  careless  voice.  "  Phoebe-is  not 
like  other  girls.  She  won't  bother  us  any.  I  tell 
you  when  a  girl  has  brothers,  she  soon  learns  to  leave 
his  men-friends  alone." 

"  It  is  my  opinion  that  none  of  them  don't  never 
learn  to  peacefully  leave  nobody  alone,"  said  Sandy. 
Sandy  was  a  little  older  than  the  rest.     He  dealt 


a 


."H    * 


bfl 


Ernest  Lays  down  His  Arms  103 

deliberately  in  the  double  negative  and  the  split  in- 
finitive. This  gave  an  effect  of  verbal  mutilation  to 
his  conversation.  But  that  was  as  nothing  to  the  in- 
surgent quality  given  by  his  cynicism  to  his  opinions. 
Sandy  had  weighed  woman  in  the  balance  and  found 
her  wanting.     He  made  general  statements  about  her. 

"  There  are  exactly  one  hundred  reasons  why  girls 
are  unfit  for  human  companionship,"  said  Art  Tur- 
ner. "  The  first  is  that  they're  women,  and  the 
other  ninety-nine  are  that  they  aren't  men." 

Art  Turner,  thin  as  a  whip-cord,  pompadoured 
and  acidulous,  was  given  to  epigram.  He  looked 
about  him  now  with  the  pardonable  pride  of  one  who 
has  struck  off  a  neat  thing. 

"  That  isn't  it,"  said  Cinders,  who  was  nothing  if 
not  concrete.  "  The  trouble  with  the  females  of  the 
species  is  that  they  have  no  stuffing  in  their  skulls. 
They  are  empty  in  the  garret  and  vacant  in  the  belfry. 
That  is,  if  they're  lookers.  There  must  be  some  of 
them  who  have  ideas,  for  you  hear  about  them  at  the 
women's  colleges.  But  there  you  are  again!  If 
they  go  to  college,  they  are  freaks.  To  find  at  one 
time,  contiguous  and  adjacent,  contemporaneous  and 
consanguineous,  a  skirt  that  is  good-looking  and  can 
talk  sense  to  a  man — it  can't  be  done.  That  kind  is 
a  paradox.  It  doesn't  happen — that's  all.  And 
damfiknow  why,  either." 

"  My  brother  said  there  was  a  college  girl  came 
to  Rouncewell  Center  last  summer  that  was  a  peach- 
erine,  and  the  niftiest  bunch  of  calico  there,"  re- 
marked Al  Lawson. 


io4         Ernest  Lays  down  His  Arms 

Al  Lawson  was  a  slender,  shy,  poetic-looking  lad 
■ — blond.  He  spoke  now  in  a  casual  kind  of  way, 
but  as  one  who  will  see  justice  done. 

"  Did  you  see  her  yourself?  "  Cinders  asked  with 
disconcerting  abruptness. 

"  No,"  admitted  Al. 

"  That's  it.  There  are  always  rumors  that  some- 
time, somewhere,  somebody  saw  a  good-looking  col- 
lege-girl. It's  like  the  Flying  Dutchman  or  the  fata 
morgana  or  the  esprit  de  corps  or  the  zeit-geist — 
you  never  see  it  yourself.  Take  it  from  me,  if 
women  are  pippins,  there  are  TO  LET  signs  in 
their  think-halls,  and  if  they  have  brains,  their  faces 
have  once  been  stepped  on." 

Ernest  seemed  to  agree  to  all  this  by  an  approving 
silence.  He  would  have  died  rather  than  raise  the 
faintest  peep  of  dissent.  But  mentally  it  made  him 
writhe,  and  physically  it  made  him  flush,  to  imagine 
what  the  others  would  say  if  they  guessed  the  true 
state  of  affairs.  For  in  the  last  year  Ernest  had  un- 
dergone a  complete  change  of  opinion  in  regard  to 
this  girl  question.  He  supposed  that  his  experience 
was  new  in  the  history  of  masculine  consciousness. 
It  never  occurred  to  him  that  Sandy,  Cinders,  Al,  Art, 
et  al.  might  be  passing  through  the  same  psychologi- 
cal change.  And  if  it  had  been  suggested  to  him  that, 
in  the  foregoing  conversation  they  were  trying,  by 
concerted  whistling,  to  keep  their  courage  up,  he 
would  have  flouted  the  theory. 

As  to  Ernest's  surprising  face-about,  many  were 
the  reasons  thereof.     First  of  all,  there  was  the  in- 


Ernest  Lays  down  His  Arms  105 

evitable  one  of  mental  growth,  of  wider  social  ex- 
perience in  college  life,  of  constant  contact  with  the 
world  of  girls.  But  allying  itself  with  the  main  cur- 
rent flowed  many  minor  streams.    Vide : 

By  accident,  Ernest  had  become  identified  in  his 
college  course  with  a  group  of  men  professedly  "  lit- 
erary "  in  taste  and  ambition.  The  accident  was  his 
personal  lovability,  the  unexpected  plasticity  and 
adaptability  which,  in  his  High  School  days,  had 
made  him  the  leader  of  his  intellectual  betters,  and 
would,  doubtless,  always  insure  him  their  companion- 
ship. He  had  become  a  little  touched  with  the 
literary  spirit.  First  and  last,  he  had  heard  a  great 
deal  of  literary  talk  at  college — discussions  of 
authors,  plots,  atmospheres,  influences,  the  technique 
of  style.  He  reeled  off  with  astonishing  glibness  the 
patter  of  his  sophomoric  tribe.  He  read  more  poetry 
than  ever  before  in  his  life — Byron,  Shelley,  Keats, 
Verlaine,  Heine — and  he  was  absolutely  unconscious 
that  it  was  his  crowd  who  really  translated  it  all 
to  him.  Latterly,  Goethe  had  become  the  god, 
Wilhelm  Meister  the  hero  of  his  mind-world.  In- 
deed, Ernest  had  discovered  many  extraordinary  re- 
semblances between  himself  and  Wilhelm  Meister — 
but  this  was  one  of  the  things  that  he  never  told  his 
friends. 

One  or  two  of  Ernest's  group  were  destined  to  go 
the  whole  weary  way  of  authorship  to  a  modest 
success.  They  all  thought  that  it  was  the  brilliant 
and  cynical  Sandy  who  was  to  become  their  class- 
pride — but  in  point  of  fact  it  was  the  inquisitive, 


106  Ernest  Lays  down  His  Arms 

tough,  and  self-sufficient  Cinders.  Sandy  was  des- 
tined, after  traveling  a  few  years  in  the  interests  of 
his  father's  shoe  business,  to  settle  down  comfortably 
to  fat  and  affluence.  So  Ernest  was  to  take  up  his 
father's  trail,  to  become  an  able  business  man  and 
a  solid  citizen.  But  for  the  moment  the  glamour 
of  the  writing  atmosphere  was  on  him.  Visions  of 
Grub  Street  beckoned  and  allured.  He  was  begin- 
ning to  let  his  thoughts  run  fictionwards.  He  even 
tried  his  secret  hand  at  verse. 

Following  on  the  advice  of  his  preceptor  and  in  the 
footsteps  of  genius,  Ernest  now  carried  a  notebook 
— number  5.  It  bore  the  proud  title  WOMEN— 
THEIR  FAULTS  AND  FRAILTIES.  And 
Ernest  was  convinced  that  he  would  fill  it  with  the 
subtleties  of  a  Balzac-like  study  of  the  sex.  But, 
somehow,  though  its  predecessors  filled  up  rapidly 
enough,  stuffed  as  they  were  with  Sandy's  general 
cynicisms,  Cinders'  concrete  observations,  Al's  epi- 
grams, and  Art's  questions,  number  five  seemed  to 
languish.  And  yet  it  had  started  with  a  bang — in  a 
statement  arrogant  enough  to  predicate  an  endless 
flow  of  eloquence. 

"  Woman,"  Ernest  wrote,  "  is  not  only  the 

CONSERVATIVE;  SHE  IS  THE  REACTIONARY  FORCE  IN 
LIFE.  SHE  IS  NOT  OF  THE  FUTURE.  SHE  IS  NOT 
EVEN  OF  THE  PRESENT.  SHE  IS  OF  THE  PAST. 
SHE   IS  THE   DETERRENT,    THE   DETERIANT    [Ernest 

was  very  proud  of  that  bit  of  word-carpentry]  OF 
progress.  Woman  deliberately  blindfolds  us 
and  then  leads  us  back." 


Ernest  Lays  down  His  Arms  107 

The  remark  still  glared  up  at  him,  alone  and  un- 
supported, from  the  first  page. 

He  had  reasons,  other  than  literary,  to  urge  him 
to  the  study  of  concrete  woman.  For  the  world  of 
his  mind  was  now  haunted,  and  haunted  by  a  being 
unmistakably  of  the  woman-kind,  a  being  whom  he 
had  never  seen,  and  thus  could  not  name.  Perhaps 
for  our  purposes,  the  label  Ideal  will  best  serve.  It 
was  not  that  Ernest  ever  consciously  exorcised  her. 
She  appeared — that  was  it — she  appeared.  At  first 
there  was  a  sense  of  shock  about  it  as  if,  entering  his 
room  suddenly,  he  had  surprised  an  alien  thing  there 
— a  creature  beautiful  but  yet  faery — a  ghost-being 
who  blew  out  like  a  candle  the  moment  he  looked  at 
her.  At  first  she  came  rarely.  Now  she  came  often, 
whenever  he  was  mentally  vacant  and  idle,  the  fifteen 
minutes  of  lying  awake  at  night  before  his  heavy, 
quickly-descending  sleep  eclipsed  her,  the  three  min- 
utes of  delicious  dozing  in  the  morning  before  his 
cold  shower  banished  her,  the  intervals  in  between 
of  lonely  walking. 

Sometimes  even  when  people  were  actually  about, 
talking,  laughing,  he  would  catch  a  glimpse  of  its 
ghost-occupant,  not  near,  but  far-away  in  the  dimly- 
lighted  reaches  of  his  mind.  And  then  his  thought, 
taking  the  bit  in  its  mouth,  would  go  galloping — 
galloping — galloping — lightly  but  swiftly  galloping 
— galloping — off — away — on — and  on — always  pur- 
suing and  never  catching  up. 

It  tantalized  Ernest  to  the  verge  of  irritation  that 
he  had  never  seen  her  face.     Or  was  that  the  f ascina- 


108  Ernest  Lays  down  His  Arms 

tion  of  it?  And  yet — here  was  a  strange  thing  about 
it — in  spite  of  her  aloofness,  he  had  a  vision,  vaguely 
actual,  of  her. 

She  was  a  contradictory  creature,  full  at  the  same 
time  of  bubbling,  sparkling  spirits  and  strange  vague 
languors,  a  creature  of  soft  curves  and  iron  muscles. 
She  had  the  body  of  woman,  the  spirit  of  man. 
She  was  compact  of  the  various  beauties  he  had 
noticed  in  others.  Her  long  floating  hair  was  thick, 
wing-like  with  jet-black  curls.  Those  curls  were  the 
curls  of  Fay  Faxon,  the  first  girl  Ernest  had  ever 
consciously  looked  at.  Her  eyes  were  the  twin  star 
blacknesses  of  a  young  girl-actor  whose  Boston 
openings  Ernest  had  tried  never  to  miss.  Her 
mouth  had  the  curved,  tragic  contours  of  an  Italian 
poetess  whose  picture  Ernest  had  once  cut  from  a 
magazine.  Her  expression — but,  here,  always  she 
evaded  him. 

Ernest  caught  himself  surreptitiously  studying  the 
faces  of  women  nowadays.  For,  just  as  he  found 
other  women  in  her,  he  found  her  in  other  women. 
His  occasional  excursions  to  New  York  gave  him 
plenty  of  opportunity  for  this  furtive  identification. 
The  New  York  streets  surged  with  women.  And 
many  of  them  looked  twice,  and  some  of  them  with 
a  smile  and  a  flash  of  invitation,  at  the  sturdy,  broad- 
shouldered  lad  whose  skin  under  its  coat  of  tan  should 
have  been  so  white,  and  whose  eyes,  through  their 
lingering  adolescent  sulkiness,  so  clear.  One  mo- 
ment the  expression  of  the  Ideal  flashed  the  brune, 
piquant,  pointed  sauciness  of  the  girl  who  had  blown 


Ernest  Lays  down  His  Arms  109 

a  horn  in  his  ear  election  night.  Again  it  softened  to 
the  velvety  languors  of  the  woman  who,  at  an  Italian 
table-d'hote,  had  stared  at  him  through  the  magic 
curtain  of  the  smoke  from  her  cigarette — a  young 
seeress  with  eyes  like  moons.  Sometimes  it  had  the 
look  of  wonder,  the  shyest  and  gentlest,  the  most  in- 
nocent and  tender,  of  a  portrait  study  that  he  once  saw 
hanging  in  a  Fifth  Avenue  window.  Once  it  had  the 
handsome  militant  sternness  of  a  young  suffragette, 
whom  his  crowd  stopped  to  "  josh  "  as,  humorously 
but  with  passion,  she  harangued  a  crowd  in  Union 
Square.  Always  it  had  the  olive,  oblique,  enigmatic 
quality  of  the  woman  in  the  illustrations  to  books 
of  eastern  travels.  And  yet,  curiously  enough,  em- 
bodied orient  that  she  was,  she  was  all  Spain  and 
all  Italy,  she  was  all  Athens  and  all  Rome. 

Translating  her  into  the  people  of  fiction,  she  was 
the  Rosalind  of  Shakespeare,  the  Rebecca  of  "  Ivan- 
hoe,"  the  Judith  of  "  Deerslayer,"  she  was  the  Lorna 
Doone  of  his  favorite  novel,  the  Mignon  of  his  latest 
god.  Translating  her  into  the  terms  of  real  life, 
she  was  the  two  Stellae,  Sidney's  and  Swift's,  she  was 
Mary  Shelley,  Claire  Clairmont,  Fannie  Brawne  and 
Bettina  von  Arnim. 

Of  all  the  things  that  she  was,  he  remained  un- 
certain, except  that  she  was  tropically  dark  and  ori- 
entally curved.  Of  one  thing  she  was  not,  he  was 
absolutely  certain.  She  differed  in  every  particular 
from  the  May  wood  girl,  the  type  of  which  Phoebe 
so  perfectly  represented.  The  Maywood  girl  was 
clean-drawn,  cut-out,  crisply  carved,  and  clearly  col- 


no         Ernest  Lays  down  His  Arms 

ored,  a  flesh-and-blood,  bread-and-butter  creature. 
The  Ideal  was  shadowy,  satiny,  melting,  of  the  sun 
and  the  wind,  and  yet  a  creature  for  poetry  and  the 
rhapsodies  of  confidence  in  the  twilight  and  under 
the  moon. 

"What  kind  of  skirts  are  the  Maywood  girls?" 
asked  Cinders. 

"  Oh,  just  like  other  girls,"  Ernest  answered. 

"Well,  are  there  many  of  them?" 

"Oodles!"  Ernest  was  laconic.  "Each  the 
exact  duplicate  of  the  other.  All  made  in  Grand 
Rapids." 

"  Oh,  Lord !  "  exclaimed  Cinders,  touching  the 
depths  of  dejection.  "  Already  I  see  her  face.  Al- 
ready I  hear  her  talk." 

"Well,  what's  the  use  of  thinking  about  it?" 
Ernest  burst  out  impatiently.  "  You  won't  see  any 
of  them.  There's  only  my  sister,  who,  as  I  tell  you, 
is  trained  to  leave  men  alone.  To  be  sure,  she's  go- 
ing to  have  a  friend  staying  there  for  a  few  days — a 
Radcliffe  girl,  Sylvia  Gordon.  But  Phoebe  says  she's 
so  busy  working  on  a  thesis  that  she  won't  have  time 
even  to  eat  with  us.  Which  reminds  me  that  I'll 
have  to  take  an  hour  or  two,  here  and  there,  to 
whack  that  essay  of  mine  into  shape.  But  you 
needn't  be  scared,  I  won't  sick  any  girls  on  to  you. 
When  I  guarantee  you  that  we  don't  fuss,  we  don't 
fuss.  See!  You  can't  possibly  hate  to  have  girls 
round  more  than  I  do.  Now  this  is  to  be  the  pro- 
gram of  the  week's  games  and  sports.  Weather 
permitting,   we'll  have  tennis — perhaps  some  golf. 


Ernest  Lays  down  His  Arms  in 

Nights  we'll  beat  it  into  Boston  to  shows.  If  it 
rains,  day-times  we'll  bum  round  the  city,  seeing  what 
we  can  see.  You  needn't  look  a  female  in  the  face 
during  the  entire  week." 

11  What  sort  of  a  girl  is  this  Gordon  girl?  "  Cin- 
ders asked. 

"  What  a  foolishness !  "  Ernest  commented. 
"  No  girl  is  ever  any  different  from  any  other  girl. 
She's  girl — that's  all — just  girl !  Phoebe  thinks  she's 
the  whole  cheese.  Come  to  think  of  it,  she  is  pretty 
plucky.  She's  worked  her  way  through  Radcliffe — 
though  after  the  first  year  she  got  a  scholarship. 
When  Phoebe  met  her,  she  was  waiting  on  table  at 
a  hotel  in  Marblehead.  My  father  and  mother 
think  she's  a  corker.  But  this  will  be  about  all 
along  this  line.  Have  we  no  more  intelligent  sub- 
jects for  conversation?  " 

Ernest's  program  gave  every  evidence  of  a  con- 
scientious intention  to  fulfil  itself.  Arriving  just 
before  dinner  at  the  big  old-fashioned  house  set  in 
the  midst  of  lawn  and  garden,  the  Princetonians 
found  a  family  of  three  awaiting  them. 

The  handsome  gentleman,  stout,  slightly  florid 
and  iron-gray,  who  was  Ernest's  father,  welcomed 
them  cordially.  Like  the  thoroughbred  that  he  was, 
he  piled  their  plates  so  full  at  the  go-off  that  they 
did  not  have  to  come  up  for  more  than  two  extra 
helps.  The  tall,  thin  woman,  soft-eyed  and  gray- 
haired,  who  was  Ernest's  mother — and  who  exactly 
met  the  sophomoric  ideal  of  a  mother — welcomed 
them  cordially,  too.    She  did  not  seem  to  notice  the 


ii2  Ernest  Lays  down  His  Arms 

disappearance  of  three  square  yards  of  steak  and, 
with  the  pudding,  of  a  salad-bowl-full  of  hard  sauce. 
Her  guests  did  not  notice  either  that  at  the  con- 
clusion of  the  meal  she  went  to  the  telephone.  "  I 
want  to  add  to  my  order,  Mr.  Jellup,  three  dozen 
more  eggs,  a  dozen  more  chops,  two  more  chickens, 
and  all  the  cream  you  can  spare  me  for  the  next 
week."  The  startling  young  person,  so  magnificently 
handsome,  so  magnificently  stately,  so  magnificently 
haughty,  who  was  Mart's  sister,  also  welcomed  them. 
But  hardly  with  cordiality.  Her  Majesty — Cinders 
immediately  dubbed  her  that — never  lifted  her  eye- 
lashes— they  were  long,  dark,  and  level — above  the 
height  of  their  ties. 

Her  Majesty — otherwise  Phoebe  Martin — disap- 
peared as  soon  as  dinner  was  over,  joining,  they 
conjectured,  the  mysterious  "  grind  M  upstairs  whom 
Cinders  christened  "  the  Captive." 

For  two  days,  the  quintette  lived  a  life  ideally 
masculine,  in  an  Eden  virtually  Eveless.  Her 
Majesty  and  the  Captive  breakfasted  and  lunched 
together  upstairs.  Both  nights  they  went  elsewhere 
for  dinner.  Once  or  twice,  filing  downstairs,  the 
boys  heard  twin  peals  of  girlish  laughter  ascending 
and  descending  the  scale  of  girlish  mirth.  Every 
mother's  son  of  them  wondered  in  his  secret  heart 
if  he  were  not  the  object  of  that  heartless  humor. 
Indeed,  it  was  immediately  after  this  that  Cinders 
said,  "  By  jiminy,  Mart,  it  certainly  is  great  the 
way  you've  cut  out  the  female  proposition  for  us. 
You  wouldn't  think  there  was  a  girl  in  this  town." 


Ernest  Lays  down  His  Arms  113 

And  then,  to  Ernest's  great  disgust,  his  whole 
scheme  of  masculine  segregation  blew  up,  burst,  and 
disappeared  before  his  very  eyes.  And  the  god  in 
this  infernal  machine  of  chance  was  the  person  whom 
he  had  most  reason  to  trust — his  mother. 

Returning  from  the  theater,  Ernest  noiselessly 
guided  the  car  up  to  the  Martin  gate  just  as  the 
town-clock  struck  twelve.  At  that  identical  mo- 
ment, the  Martin  door  opened  and  disgorged  what 
Cinders  afterward  described  as  "  all  the  girls  in  the 
world  and  then  some."  Subtracting  hyperbole  and 
substituting  exact  statistic,  it  let  out  Her  Majesty, 
a  spark  of  mischief  in  her  gray  eyes  big  enough  to 
melt  the  last  icicle  of  her  manner.  It  let  out  Molly 
Tate,  a  little  bud  of  femininity,  flaxen  and  demure. 
It  let  out  the  Gould  twins,  slender,  brown,  diabolic 
in  their  coquetry,  as  alike  as  paired  pearls,  except 
that,  as  Cinders  sapiently  remarked,  "  each  was 
prettier  than  the  other."  It  let  out  Mrs.  Martin, 
who  said  in  a  relieved  voice,  "  Oh,  there  you  are, 
Ernie,  at  last.  You  can  take  the  girls  home  in  the 
car. 

"  All  right,  mother,"  said  Ernest.  "  Say,  fellers," 
he  went  on,  sacrificing  himself  nobly,  "  you  beat  it 
upstairs.    I  won't  be  gone  but  fifteen  minutes." 

But,  to  his  intense  disgust  and  anxiety,  the  boys 
lingered,  helping  to  pack  the  girls  in  the  motor. 
Out  of  his  own  experience,  Ernest  could  have  told 
them  that  that  was  like  playing  with  a  trap  whose 
working  you  do  not  understand.  And  Phoebe, 
traitor  that  she  was,  egged  them  on.     You  never 


ii4         Ernest  Lays  down  His  Arms 

could  depend  on  any  female,  Ernest  reflected  bit- 
terly, not  even  a  sister,  to  play  your  game.  And 
then,  at  the  last  moment,  on  one  excuse  or  another, 
the  Princetonians  leaped  into  the  car,  sitting  on  the 
floor,  standing  on  the  running-board,  hanging  on 
by  their  eyelids  generally.  They  proceeded  to 
"  jolly  "  the  feminine  half  of  the  cargo  until  their 
rush  through  the  night  trailed,  like  a  banner,  a  con- 
tinuous peal  of  girl-giggles.  Not  only  that — and 
decidedly,  Ernest  did  not  think  this  was  playing  fair 
— when  they  reached  Molly  Tate's  house,  they  pre- 
vailed on  her  to  see  the  Gould  girls  home.  Arriving 
five  minutes  later  at  the  Gould  place,  they  wheedled 
the  twins  into  seeing  Molly  home.  By  a  clever  pro- 
longation of  this  system,  they  saw  Molly  home  six 
times  and  the  twins  five.  Finally,  to  Ernest's  relief, 
feminine  rebellion  asserted  itself  over  feminine  pli- 
ability. 

"  I  tell  you,  fellers,  what  let's  do  to-day,"  Ernest 
said  the  next  morning,  "  you  haven't  any  of  you  been 
to " 

"  Oh,  see  here,  Mart,"  Cinders  interrupted,  "  if 
you  don't  mind,  I  guess  I  won't  go  motoring  this 
morning.  You  see,  last  night,  that  Miss  Tate  got 
to  talking  tennis  with  me — say,  what  sort  of  a  game 
does  she  play,  Mart?  " 

"  Rattling  for  a  girl,"  Ernest  replied  with  en- 
thusiasm. "  She  and  Phoebe  won  the  ladies'  doubles 
here." 

"  Well,  she's  crazy  to  learn  that  Lawford  stroke 
— says  she  can't  get  it.     And  she's  going  into  a 


Ernest  Lays  down  His  Arms  115 

tournament  this  summer.  I  said  if  the  weather  was 
good  this  morning,  I'd  get  over  and  teach  her." 

"  I  was  just  about  to  say,  Mart,"  Sandy  Williston 
said  in  deep  chest  tones,  "  that  I've  got  to  cut  this 
expedition  out,  too.  I  was  speaking  about  that 
glass-flowers  exhibition  over  at  Harvard  and  your 
sister  said  she  could  take  me  through  blindfold. 
Her  exact  words  were  that  '  forty  billion  Harvard 
men  had  forced  the  glass  flowers  on  her.'  That's  one 
thing  I  ought  to  do  while  I'm  here,  you  know.  So 
if  you  don't  mind " 

"  Well,  as  long  as  you  fellers  are  cutting  out  the 
Hub  of  the  Universe,"  Art  remarked  eagerly,  "  I 
guess  I  will,  too.  That  Miss  Gould — one  of  them 
— I  don't  know  which — invited  me  to  go  on  a  motor- 
ing party  her  aunt  is  getting  up.  They're  going  to 
Wellesley.  I'd  like  to  see  the  college  because  my 
sister  is  thinking  of  entering  next  year.  I  really 
think  I  ought  to  look  the  place  over." 

"  Well,"  Ernest  remarked,  "  that  leaves  you  and 
me,  Al,  to  do  this  Bunker  Hill  job  all  by  our  lone- 
someness." 

"  You  see,  Mart,"  Al  began  in  a  hesitating  man- 
ner, "  the  other  Gould  twin — I  don't  know  which 
one  either — but  the  one  that  didn't  ask  Art — asked 
me  to  go  to  Wellesley,  too.  And  I  thought  as  long 
as  Art  was  going " 

11  All  right,"  said  Ernest,  smothering  disappoint- 
ment. "  Oh,  I  know  what  I'll  do.  I'll  take  to-day 
to  plug  at  that  essay.  Then  to-morrow  we'll  go 
over  to  Bunker  Hill." 


n6         Ernest  Lays  down  His  Arms 

In  spite  of  the  work  piled  up  before  him,  Ernest 
found  it  a  lonely  day.  The  house  was  absolutely 
silent.  Even  Mrs.  Martin  went  into  town  for 
a  day's  shopping.  Delaying  as  long  as  possible 
the  awful  initial  moment  of  work,  Ernest  col- 
lected all  kinds  of  accessories,  necessary  and  un- 
necessary. He  sharpened  his  pencils  to  slender, 
rapier-like  points.  He  hunted  fifteen  minutes  until 
he  found  a  special  brand  with  a  rubber  on  the  end. 
Found — he  spent  another  minute  absently  gnawing 
the  rubber  off.  Having  exhausted  all  the  possible 
subterfuges,  he  settled  down  and  worked  hard  for 
an  hour. 

Then  suddenly,  a  sound  from  downstairs,  a  sound 
in  all  that  solitude  and  silence,  as  brazen  as  a  bell, 
brought  him  out  of  his  absorption. 

It  was  only  that  a  door  opened.  But  following 
its  abrupt  slam  came  the  swish  of  a  feminine  skirt. 
This  new  sound  rustled  the  length  of  the  hall,  sub- 
sided. A  window  opened.  Followed  absolute  si- 
lence. Ernest  walked  softly  to  his  window  and 
looked  out  at  the  Maywood  hills. 

Spring  had  not  come.  It  was  one  of  those  rare 
days,  earnest  of  a  golden  summer,  by  which  the  New 
England  climate  annually  fools  the  oldest  inhabitant 
into  believing  that  winter  has  gone.  Skies  washed 
clear  and  blue,  feathery  clouds  lighted  from  within, 
grass  shooting  through  steamy  loam  to  jostle 
crocuses,  May  flowers,  and  violets. 

The  window  shut.  The  skirt  took  up  its  rustle 
and  swished  down  the  hall.    The  door  closed.    Syl- 


Ernest  Lays  down  His  Arms  117 

via  Gordon's  personality,  which  had  scented  the 
whole  house  for  an  instant,  faded  into  silence  and 
nothingness.  But  the  whiff  of  spring  that  she  had 
let  in  through  the  open  window  persisted. 

Ernest  still  stood  at  the  window.  Dreaming,  he 
still  gazed  at  the  Maywood  hills.  Suddenly  his 
thought  caught  sight,  in  the  far-off  twilit  reaches  of 
his  mind,  of — how  exquisitely  evasive  it  was,  that 
being  of  mist,  how  delicately  evanescent!  Lightly 
but  with  intense  speed,  his  thought  galloped  after — 
galloped — galloped — always  pursuing  but  never 
quite  catching  up. 

"  How  about  Bunker  Hill  to-day?  "  Ernest  said 
the  next  morning. 

u  I  tell  you  what,  Mart,"  Sandy  said  eagerly,  "  I 
wish  you'd  put  that  off  till  to-morrow.  Your  sister 
said  she'd  never  seen  the  old  North  Church — you 
know  the  one.    The  first  boy-scout,  Paul  Revere : 

"  One  if  by  land  and  two  if  by  sea,  rubbering  on  the  opposite 
shore  I'll  be 
Swiftly  to  beat  it  and  spread  the  alarm  to  every  Mid- 
dlesex hayseed's  farm. 

That  one.  She  said  she'd  show  me  all  the  high- 
brow historic  places  at  the  North  End — Independ- 
ence Bell " 

"  That's  in  Philadelphia,"  Ernest  remarked,  not 
in  the  pride  of  omniscience  but  as  one  who  states 
a  fact. 


u8  Ernest  Lays  down  His  Arms 

"  Is  it?"  said  Sandy  indignantly.  "  What  a 
nerve  to  sacrilegiously  move  a  fine  old  landmark 
like  that.  There  ain't  no  real  reverence  for  nothing 
no  longer  in  this  country.  Is  it  not  so?  And  then 
we'll  see  the  House  of  Seven  Gables." 

"  Salem,"  Ernest  corrected  politely. 

"  Well,  anyway,  the  Old  Manse." 

"  Concord,"  Ernest  stated  wearily.  "  Don't  look 
for  the  Flatiron  Building  or  the  Metropolitan 
Tower,  will  you,  little  one?  At  last  accounts,  they 
had  not  been  moved  from  New  York." 

11  That  little  Tate  girl  is  coming  on  fine,"  Cinders 
said  with  enthusiasm.  "  Say,  she  can  play  tennis, 
can't  she?    I  said  I'd  stroll  over  this  morning." 

"  Those  Gould  girls  and  their  brother  offered  to 
take  Al  and  me  through  Harvard  to-day,"  Art 
began. 

"  And  I  really  ought  to  go,"  Al  ended  it  for  him. 
"  You  see,  my  mother's  brothers  all  went  to  Har- 
vard, and  she'll  be  awfully  disappointed  if  I  don't 
see  it." 

"  Kindly  cut  out  fathers,  mothers,  sisters,  broth- 
ers, aunts  and  uncles  for  excuses,"  Ernest  begged 
bitterly.  "  Who  was  the  Indian  who  said  he'd  never 
dare  look  his  father  in  the  face  if  he  didn't  go  over 
to  Bunker  Hill?" 

"  I  did,"  Cinders  threw  in  jauntily.  "  Well,  I 
guess  I'll  be  perambulating." 

"  I'll  finish  that  damn  essay  to-day,"  Ernest  said. 
"  But  to-morrow "  he  ended  threateningly. 

He  ground  lonesomely  away  all  day  long.     But 


Ernest  Lays  down  His  Arms  119 

he  did  not  finish  the  essay.  At  intervals  the  door 
downstairs  would  open.  The  rustle  of  a  skirt  would 
fill  the  house  with  its  subtle,  exquisitely  minute, 
gigantically  reverberant  thunders.  Always  at  these 
times,  Ernest  would  stop  and  dream.  Dream — 
dream — and  about  nothing — dream  until  his  dream 
broke  in  a  vague  irritation  and  impatience. 

"  Now  to-day,"  he  began  in  a  menacing  tone,  after 
breakfast  the  next  morning,  "  we'll " 

He  was  interrupted.  Advancing  with  military 
quickstep  to  a  position  directly  in  front  of  him,  Al 
and  Art  saluted.  They  chanted  in  unison  with 
wooden  monotonous  voices:  "  The  Gould  twins  have 
invited  us  to  go  with  them  and  their  brother  to 
Lexington  and  Concord.  We  are  much  interested 
in  the  memorials  to  American  patriotism,  but,  more 
than  anything  else,  we  are  determined  to  get  those 
pulchritudinous  young  females  unmixed.'' 

They  saluted  again. 

Ernest  laughed  in  spite  of  himself. 

"  Your  sister  said  she'd  take  me  to  Salem  to-day 
— she  knows  a  lot  of  people  there."  Sandy's  air 
was  meek.  He  had  the  appearance  of  slipping  this 
in  while  yet  the  softness  of  his  mirth  lay  on  Ernest. 
"  And  I  like  to  zealously  improve  my  mind." 

"  I'm  still  on  the  job  teaching  the  young  idea  how 
to  cut,"  remarked  Cinders. 

"  All  right,"  said  Ernest.  "  I  hereby  wash  my 
hands  of  you.  And  to  the  deepest,  darkest  Plu- 
tonian depths  with  you.  I  am  glad,  though,"  he 
added,  with  an  effect  of  heavy  sarcasm,  "  that  you 


120         Ernest  Lays  down  His  Arms 

insisted  on  a  non-fussing  expedition.     It  has  made 
it  so  easy  to  entertain  you." 

This  shaft  pierced  no  heart.  The  quartette  was 
too  busy  re-combing  hair,  re-arranging  ties,  fur- 
tively studying  the  set,  over  proudly-held  broad 
shoulders,  of  best  coats. 

Alone  once  more,  Ernest  worked  lamely  and 
lonesomely  for  a  while.  "  I'm  not  getting  any- 
where," he  said  finally  to  himself,  "  I  guess  I'll  go 
into  the  Boston  Public  Library  and  clean  up  that 
research  business.  That  will  leave  the  rest  of  the 
week  clear." 

With  Ernest,  thinking  was  slow,  acting  quick. 
Leaping  into  his  coat,  he  tore  to  the  Maywood  sta- 
tion. Falling  into  the  only  vacant  seat  in  the  ten- 
fifteen  train,  he  found  Sylvia  Gordon  there. 

"Greetings,  fellow-prisoner !  "  Ernest  said. 
"  How  goes  the  thesis?  " 

"  Very  badly,  thank  you,  companion-in-misery,,, 
Sylvia  replied.    "  How  about  the  essay?  " 

u  Pretty  rotten,  thank  you,"  Ernest  returned 
cheerfully. 

"  I'm  going  into  the  Boston  Library  to  grind," 
Sylvia  confided. 

"  Are  you?  "  said  Ernest.  "  That's  a  coincidence. 
So  am  I." 

"What  is  the  subject  of  your  essay,  Ernest?" 
Sylvia  asked. 

"'The  Character  of  Wilhelm  Meister.'  I've 
worked  until  I'm  almost  dippy." 

"Talking     about    coincidences!"     Sylvia     said. 


Ernest  Lays  down  His  Arms  121 

"  Mine  is  Goethe's  *  Faust/  You  know  I  simply 
adore  Goethe." 

"  Another  coincidence,"  Ernest  admitted.  "  He 
certainly  is  the  main  squeeze  in  the  whole  literary 
works  for  me." 

It  was  like  that  all  the  way  into  Boston — Ernest 
told  Sylvia  all  those  thoughts  about  Wilhelm  Meis- 
ter  that  he  had  not  confided  to  his  group. 

"  I'm  glad  you're  going  to  the  Library,"  he  con- 
cluded, "  you  know  the  ropes:  I  don't." 

Sylvia  did  know  the  ropes.  She  led  him  with 
an  accustomed  air  to  one  of  the  big  tables  in  the 
beautiful,  arched,  gray-stone  reading-room.  She  ex- 
orcised by  her  private  magic  a  pair  of  book-genii 
who  fetched  and  carried  until  she  and  Ernest  sat 
shoulder-high  behind  Goethe.  Then  she  fell  to  her 
reading  and  her  note-taking.  From  that  instant,  she 
hardly  looked  up. 

Ernest  also  worked  hard,  but  not  so  hard  as 
Sylvia.  His  glance,  straying  up  from  his  book,  oc- 
casionally hit  the  head  opposite,  caught,  lingered 
there. 

How  quiet  she  was !    How  concentrated ! 

She  had  taken  off  her  hat  and  jacket.  She  sat 
in  an  attitude  deliciously  feminine,  her  head  bent, 
her  shoulders  drooped  forward.  Ernest  recalled 
the  little  marble  bust  of  Clytie  of  which  Phoebe  was 
so  fond. 

She  sat  in  gloom  at  first;  her  brown  hair  took  on 
its  brown.  It  fell  here  into  tiny  eddies  of  shadow, 
there  into  tiny  maelstroms  of  light.     Suddenly  a 


122         Ernest  Lays  down  His  Arms 

long-fingered  sunbeam  fell  upon  her;  the  shadow 
melted,  vanished.  Her  hair  brightened,  became 
light  itself,  floating  off  into  tendrils,  the  finest  and 
silkiest,  dissolving  at  the  ends,  evaporating,  merging 
with  the  very  air. 

Her  skin  was  satin — and  white.  Was  it  the  white 
of  marble,  of  ivory,  of  alabaster?  On  the  soft  con- 
tour of  her  cheek  lay  a  bloom  as  delicate  as  if  the 
faintest  flame  of  spirit-fire  had  burned  through.  On 
this  bloom  lay  eyelashes,  satiny  also,  the  color  of 
the  deepest  shadow  in  her  hair — lay  eyelashes  and 
their  fairy-film,  fluttering  shadows.  Her  mouth, 
like  a  little  rose,  tightly  folded,  seemed  red  above 
the  white  point  of  her  chin.  Or  did  the  chin  seem 
white  under  that  petal-pink,  double  ripple  of  lips? 
At  any  rate,  white  chin  merged  marvelously  with 
whiter  neck. 

How  little  she  was,  how  slender  and  frail  and 
yet  how  softly  round. 

How  still  she  was !    How  remote ! 

How She  was  something  else.     But  what 

was  it? 

Pure!  That  was  it.  That  was  what  she  was. 
Pure! 

After  all,  that  was  what  girls  were.  They  were 
pure.  For  the  first  time  the  word  purity  gained  an 
abstract  significance  in  Ernest's  mind.  You  never 
thought  of  that  word  in  connection  with  men.  But 
purity  in  women  was  beautiful. 

Sylvia  was  wonderfully  pure.  She  was  purity 
itself. 


Ernest  Lays  down  His  Arms  123 

Something  in  Ernest  broke,  some  crust  that  lay 
between  him  and  a  knowledge  of  himself,  a  crust 
that,  subconsciously,  he  had  tried  not  to  break.  A 
flood  of  conviction  burst  upon  him — tossed  him — 

spun  him — floated  him — subsided Suddenly  he 

knew  that  he  worshiped  purity  in  Sylvia;  that  he 
worshiped  it  in  Woman;  that  he  must  worship  it 
wherever  he  found  it  the  rest  of  his  life.  Many 
thoughts  darted  out  from  this  conviction  and 
whirled  through  his  mind,  detached,  unrelated, 
irrelevant.  Perhaps  he  did  not  himself  realize  that 
he  was  thinking  them.  After  all,  girls  could  no 
longer  be  ignored.  They  were  in  the  world.  There, 
they  were  with  a  continuous  blare  of  trumpets — to 
stay.  Life  was  incomplete  without  them!  They 
were  the  other  half  of  creation.  You  could  not  beat 
their  game.  A  man  was  handicapped  from  the 
start.  Whoever  planned  the  universe  had  loaded 
their  dice.  But  perhaps  there  were  compensations. 
They  were  beautiful.  They  were  good.  It  could 
not  be  denied  that  in  many  ways  they  were  original 
and  inspiring.  They  were  wonderful  in  their  sym- 
pathy and  understanding.  There  were  some 
thoughts — precious  ones,  too — that  they  alone  could 
understand.  Why — a  man  lived  two  lives  really; 
and  one  of  those  lives  must  be  shared  with  a  woman. 

Ernest's  soul  emitted  a  long  sigh.  It  was  a  silent 
sigh.  Nobody  heard  it.  Ernest  did  not  hear  it 
himself.  Had  the  whole  world  at  that  moment  been 
raised  to  disembodied  spirits,  not  a  female  soul  con- 
templating the  revolution  in  Ernest,  but  would  have 


124         Ernest  Lays  down  His  Arms 

laughed  in  triumph,  not  a  male  soul  but  would  have 
wept  with  regret. 

For  Ernest  had  laid  down  his  arms  to  women. 

Sylvia  showed  him  a  place  where  they  could  lunch. 
Afterwards  they  worked  again.  Mid-afternoon, 
Ernest  pushed  a  note  across  the  table. 

My  head  is  getting  woozy.  How  would  you  like  to  go 
canoeing?  We  can  cut  across  by  trolley  from  Riverside 
to  Maywood  and  get  home  in  time  for  dinner. 

She  returned  the  note  with  a  scribbled,  "  I  would 
love  it." 

I  repeat,  spring  had  not  yet  come.  But  she  stood 
tiptoe  at  the  door,  her  lap  full  of  flowers,  waiting  to 
burst  in  with  dance  and  with  song. 

The  trees  made  a  soft  chocolate-colored  smoke 
against  a  sky  that  dazzled  with  its  blue.  The  sun 
dropped  red  ripples  on  a  river  that  soothed  with 
its  gray.    The  grass  had  newly  painted  itself  green. 

Under  the  blue  sky,  Ernest  discovered  Sylvia's 
eyes.  They  were  blue,  too — china-blue — seemingly 
much  deeper  in  color  because  curling  lashes,  always 
at  half-mast,  helped  with  their  shadow. 

"  Now  tell  me,"  Ernest  said,  "  about  your  thesis 
and  how  you  came  to  like  Goethe  and  how  you 
happened  to  choose  !  Faust '  instead  of  '  Wilhelm 
Meister.'  " 

She  told  him. 

Nobody  who  has  not  been  through  the  same  ex- 
perience will  understand  what  happened.  He  will 
not   believe   the   wonders   of   coincidence   in   their 


Ernest  Lays  down  His  Arms  125 

thoughts,  beliefs,  opinions,  tastes,  theories,  points  of 
view,  that  those  two  found,  the  miracles  of  coin- 
cidence in  the  mere  matter  of  experience.  He  will 
not  credit  the  number  of  vistas  that  Sylvia  opened 
to  Ernest,  the  number  of  doors  that  Ernest  threw 
wide  for  Sylvia.  For  before  their  very  eyes,  worlds 
were  bursting,  re-forming,  bursting  again  to  spawn 
bigger  worlds.  Yea,  aeons  were  passing;  universes 
were  in  the  making.  And,  indeed,  this  outsider — 
perhaps  he  is  a  myth  after  all — might  have  missed 
most  of  the  magic  of  it  had  he  listened,  unillumined 
by  the  memory  of  his  own  experience.  For  this  is 
the  sort  of  thing  he  would  have  heard. 

"  Sylvia,  do  you  like  Keats?  " 

"  I  adore  him,  Ernest.  He's  my  favorite  English 
poet." 

"  What  an  extraordinary  coincidence !  Which  of 
his  poems  do  you  like  best,  Sylvia?  " 

"  '  Bards  of  passion,  bards  of  mirth,'  Ernest." 

11  What  a  coincidence,  Sylvia.  That's  the  only 
poem  I've  ever  liked  enough  to  learn  by  heart." 

They  recited  it  together  and  laughed  when 
Ernest  broke  down  on  line  six. 

"  What  wonderful  single  lines  Keats  gives  you, 
Ernest,"  Sylvia  added.  "  '  Forlorn,  the  very  sound 
is  like  a  bell !  '  and  '  Beaded  bubbles  winking  at  the 
brim.'  " 

"  I  have  them  both  in  my  notebook,"  Ernest  said  in 
the  tone  of  one  who  does  not  expect  to  be  believed. 

"  Have  you  read  his  letters,  Ernest?  " 

"  I  eat  them  up,  Sylvia." 


126         Ernest  Lays  down  His  Arms 

That  night  the  quintette,  in  the  best  of  spirits, 
smoked  and  talked  for  an  hour  before  going  to  bed. 

"  Well,  Mart,"  Cinders  announced  cheerfully  at 
last,  u  I've  had  enough  fussing.  How  about  cutting 
it  all  out  and  leading  a  man's  life  for  a  while?  What 
do  you  say,  if  this  weather  keeps  up,  to  some  tennis 
to-morrow  morning?  It  puts  your  game  on  the 
blink  to  play  with  a  woman." 

"  All  right  for  me  and  Al,"  said  Art.  "  Those 
Gould  girls  are  going  away  for  a  couple  of  days 
to-morrow  and  we  still  can't  tell  one  from  the  other." 

"  Yes,"  Sandy  chimed  in.  "  Your  sister  says  she's 
neglected  Miss  Gordon  so  long  that  she  feels  she 
must  devote  herself  to  her  for  the  rest  of  her  stay. 
I  tell  you  what — tennis  in  the  morning — golf  in 
the  afternoon — dinner  in  town,  and  Daisy  Deene  in 
*  The  Silly  Suffragette  '  afterwards.  How  about 
it?" 

11  Nothing  doing,"  said  Ernest  trenchantly. 
"  Not  for  mine !  You  fellows  can  play  golf  and 
tennis  till  the  cows  come  home.  But  I've  offered  to 
take  Phoebe  and  Sylvia  Gordon  motoring  for  the 
next  two  days.  This  is  Sylvia's  spring  recess  and 
she  hasn't  seen  outdoors  yet.  Come  along,  those 
who  don't  want  to  play  tennis." 

After  the  inevitable  ante-retiring  fracas  in  which 
flying  pillows,  wet  face-cloths,  soppy  sponges,  soapy 
towels  played  their  inevitable  part,  the  Princetonians 
settled  down  from  libelous  argument  to  mere  casual 
abuse,  to  occasional  sleepy  sarcasm,  to  deep  breath- 
ing, to  complete  unconsciousness. 


Ernest  Lays  down  His  Arms  127 

Ernest  remained  wakeful  far  into  the  night.  And, 
very  late,  a  wonderful  thing  happened.  His  thought 
suddenly  caught  sight  of  its  mystic  occupant  far  off 
in  the  illimitable  reaches  of  his  mind.  It  galloped 
lightly  but  swiftly  after — galloped — galloped — gal- 
loped until  for  the  first  time  it  caught  up. 

And,  lo,  the  hair  was  no  longer  the  hair  of  Fay 
Faxon;  it  was  blonde,  ethereal,  melting  into  the 
very  air.  The  eyes  were  no  longer  the  twin  star- 
blackness  of  the  young  girl  actor;  they  were  china- 
blue,  shadowed  by  eyelashes  always  at  half-mast. 
The  mouth  was  no  longer  curved  into  the  tragic  con- 
tours of  the  Italian  poet;  it  was  like  a  little  pink 
bud,  tightly  folded.  Yet,  though  the  face  was  the 
face  of  Sylvia  Gordon,  it  had  retained  some  subtle 
suggestions  of  all  the  others.  Or  was  it  that  Sylvia 
was  a  divine,  spiritual  composite  of  all  the  beauty 
in  the  world? 

He  waited  a  long  time,  until  everybody  slept. 
Then  he  arose,  stole  out  of  the  Gym  and  downstairs 
to  his  own  room.  He  unlocked  his  desk  and  took 
out  Notebook  Number  5.  He  looked  with  a  frown 
at  the  title— WOMEN,  THEIR  FAULTS  AND 
FRAILTIES.  He  glanced  with  a  sneer  at  its  soli- 
tary entry.  Then  he  placed  it  with  its  predecessors, 
locked  it  up.  From  a  pigeonhole  he  took  a  fresh 
blank-book.  He  numbered  it  six.  He  labeled  it 
WOMAN— HER  BEAUTIES  AND  VIRTUES. 
And  on  the  first  page  he  inscribed: 

11  The  woman-soul  leadeth  us  upward  and  on." 


CHAPTER  V 
PHOEBE  CLOSES  WITH  CUPID 

Ci  LJEOPLE  are  so  lovely  to  engaged  couples 
JL  nowadays.  They  never  did  such  things 
when  we  were  young.  And  the  men  enjoy  the  enter- 
taining just  as  much  as  the  girls."  Mrs.  Martin 
was  speaking  to  Cousin  Debbie.  She  paused  as  her 
daughter  entered  the  room  and  her  preoccupied  gaze 
swept  over  Phoebe's  lithe  figure.    "  Why,  don't  you 

remember,  Edward,  how "    She  started  briskly 

turning  to  her  husband.  Then  as  if  something, 
which  she  had  subconsciously  noted  in  Phoebe's  ap- 
pearance, had  just  reached  her  intelligence,  Mrs. 
Martin  stopped  short.  But  all  she  said  was, 
"Aren't  you  back  early?  Tired?  Or  was  it  a 
puncture?  " 

"  No,  I'm  not  tired  and  it  wasn't  a  puncture.     I 

came  back  because  I  wanted "     Phoebe's  voice 

slid  off  into  silence.  She  stared  at  her  father  and 
mother  as  if  she  were  looking  at  them  for  the  first 
time.  Or  perhaps  it  was  from  another  point  of 
view. 

Obviously  a  little  surprised  by  her  manner,  Mrs. 
Martin  stared  back.  Phoebe  had  just  returned  from 
a  long  motor-ride  with  Tug  through  an  autumnal 
fog.     She  had  brought  the  night  in  with  her.     The 

128 


Phoebe  Closes  with  Cupid  129 

dampness  made  her  tendrilly  hair  a  mass  of  float- 
ing ringlets;  it  added  a  fresh  burnish  to  her  brows 
and  lashes.  Indeed,  there  was  luster  to  her  whole 
appearance.  For,  notwithstanding  the  wet,  cheeks 
and  eyes  flashed  with  the  whitest  fires  of  her  spirit. 

"  Because     you     wanted "      Mrs.      Martin 

prompted. 

But  instead  of  answering,  Phoebe  said,  "  What 
were  you  and  father  talking  about  when  I  came  in?  " 
Her  voice  had  a  suspicious  note. 

11  About  Tom  Deane's  and  Sally  Gould's  engage- 
ment and  the  lovely  things  people  have  been  doing 
for  them.  I  think  it's  so  nice  that  Tom's  attended 
all  the  teas  with  Sally.  I  was  just  saying  that  they 
didn't  do  such  things  for  engaged  couples  when 
Debbie  and  I  were  girls." 

Deborah  Dodd  was  Mrs.  Martin's  cousin  and 
about  her  own  age.  A  little,  thin,  brown,  bright- 
eyed  bird  of  a  creature,  Mrs.  Martin  had  always 
been  the  meteor  of  her  quiet  spinster  existence. 
Now,  however,  that  Phoebe  had  grown  up  to  an 
acknowledged  belledom,  she  had  transferred  her  ad- 
miration to  that  engaging  young  person.  Whenever 
Phoebe  was  present,  Cousin  Debbie's  head  always 
turned  in  her  direction — her  eyes  followed  her 
wherever  she  moved. 

"  What  did  they  do?  "  The  suspicious  note  had 
gone  out  of  Phoebe's  tone.  Her  manner  was  a  little 
blank. 

"  Why— nothing." 

"  I  think  that  was  horrid."     Phoebe's  blankness 


130  Phoebe  Closes  with  Cupid 

flared  to  indignation.  "  Sally  Gould  says  half  the 
fun  of  being  engaged  is  the  way  people  entertain 
you." 

"  Well,  I  guess  it  was  because  folks  were  poorer 
then/'  Cousin  Debbie  explained,  cocking  her  head 
wisely.  "  It  was  just  about  all  they  could  do  to  give 
a  girl  a  good  wedding.  And  they  thought  more 
about  their  wedding  outfit  when  I  was  young.  They 
had  to  have  so  many  clothes  then — enough  for  a 
year.     Now  they  only  get  enough  for  one  season." 

"  Some  people  think,"  Mrs.  Martin  added,  "  that 
they  make  too  much  of  a  to-do  about  engagements 
nowadays.  But  I  don't — I  think  it's  beautiful.  I 
should  just  have  loved  it — wouldn't  you,  Edward?  " 

"  No,"  Mr.  Martin  announced  in  disgust.  "  Men 
hate  a  fuss — the  wedding  itself's  bad  enough.  Why, 
Bertha,  do  you  suppose  I'd  have  gone  to  any  tea- 
fights  even  if  I'd  had  the  time?  Or  let  you  go? 
Engaged  couples  want  to  be  let  alone." 

u  That's  perfect  nonsense,  father,"  commented 
Phoebe.  u  It  all  depends  on  the  way  you've  been 
brought  up.  Nowadays  men  go  to  teas  just  as  much 
as  women.    Look  at  Tom  Deane." 

"  I  suppose  the  willy-boys  do,"  Mr.  Martin 
agreed.  "  Tom  Deane's  a  sissy  from  Sissyville. 
But  I  guess  you  don't  find  many  husky  ones  there." 

Phoebe  chose  to  ignore  this.  "  I  should  have 
thought,  mother,  you  would  have  found  it  pretty 
pokey  being  engaged  if  nobody  did  things  for  you." 

"  Oh,  no,"  Mrs.  Martin  said  in  a  shocked  tone, 
"  I  was  so  busy  sewing  and  furnishing  our  house 


Phoebe  Closes  with  Cupid  131 

up  that  it  didn't  seem  as  if  the  days  were  half 
long  enough.  Don't  you  remember  how  I  slaved, 
Debbie?" 

Debbie  confirmed  this  with  an  assenting  cluck 
and  many  pecking  nods  of  her  head.  "  Bertha,  your 
mother  had  more  fun  out  of  it  than  you  did — you 
might  say.  Don't  you  remember  how  she  used  to 
have  all  the  old  ladies  in  to  tea  about  three  times 
a  week  to  show  them  your  things?  " 

Mr.  Martin  chuckled.  "  And  how  mad  she  used 
to  get  with  me  because  when  I  was  in  town  I'd  take 
Bertha  out  right  under  their  eyes  for  a  walk!  The 
scoldings  she's  given  me  for  that!  She  wanted  to 
show  Bertha  off,  of  course." 

Phoebe  started  to  speak  again.  Then  as  if  the 
thing  she  tried  to  say  refused  to  roll  from  her 
tongue,  she  obviously  made  off  in  another  direction. 
"  How  did  you  announce  your  engagement, 
mother?" 

"  Why,  I  just  told  my  friends  who  lived  near  and 
wrote  to  those  that  I  couldn't  see.  Then  your  father 
and  I  called  on  a  few  and  that  was  all  there  was 
to  it." 

A  long  pause  followed.  Once  or  twice,  Phoebe 
made  an  attempt  to  break  it.  But  every  time,  just 
as  the  words  came,  she  bit  her  lips.  "  What  were 
you  married  in,  mother?  "  she  asked  finally. 

"  Ask  your  father,"  Mrs.  Martin  suggested  slyly. 

Mr.  Martin  did  not  look  up. 

"  Going-away  costume  of  brown  ottoman  silk, 
long  brown   cloak  of  ottoman   silk,   brown  velvet 


132  Phoebe  Closes  with  Cupid 

bonnet  with  brown  tips  on  it,"  he  recited  this  off 
with  the  facility  of  a  phonograph. 

11  Good  for  you,  Edward,"  Mrs.  Martin  ap- 
plauded. u  Well,  I  declare !  "  A  soft,  pleased  light 
fired  her  eye  and  a  delicate  surge  of  color  pinkened 
her  cheek.  "  Phoebe,  I  taught  your  father  to  say 
that.  So  many  of  his  folks  who  couldn't  come  to 
the  wedding  asked  him  what  I  was  going  to  wear 
that  I  made  him  learn  it  by  heart.  And  he's  remem- 
bered it  all  these  years."  Over  her  work,  Mrs. 
Martin's  eyes,  shining  with  appreciation,  met  her 
husband's. 

"And  what  kind  of  a  wedding  did  you  have?" 
Phoebe  asked,  unheeding  this  by-play. 

"  Very  quiet.  Just  the  nearest  relatives  on  both 
sides.  I  don't  believe  there  were  more  than  twenty 
there.  It  was  in  the  fall  and  I  decorated  the  house 
with  asters  and  dahlias  from  our  garden.  I  remem- 
ber mother  was  heartbroken  because  we  couldn't  hire 
a  florist  and  caterer.  You  see,  mother  didn't  have 
a  wedding,  and  so  she  was  just  dying  for  me  to 
have  one.  But  we  couldn't  afford  it.  Why,  at 
mother's  wedding — that  was  over  sixty  years  ago — 
they  had  no  collation;  they  handed  round  lemonade 
and  cake  for  refreshments." 

"Mercy!"  exclaimed  Phoebe.  "  Refreshments! 
Collation  1  How  primitive!"  Had  she  been  con- 
fronted with  the  Jurassic  bird,  her  tone  could  not 
have  contained  more  of  astonishment. 

"  I  sometimes  wonder  what  mother'd  think,"  Mrs. 
Martin  sailed  on,  serenely  oblivious  of  the  younger 


Phoebe  Closes  with  Cupid  133 

generation,  "  if  she  could  see  the  fashionable  wed- 
dings nowadays,  when  often  the  only  decorations  are 
field-flowers — '  weeds,'  she'd  call  them.  Etta  Ray 
made  an  arbor  of  autumn  leaves  for  my  wedding — 
in  one  corner  of  the  parlor  between  the  secretary 
and  the  big  clock.  I  thought  it  was  lovely,  but 
mother  wanted  me  to  stand  under  a  wedding-bell  of 
cut  flowers." 

"  The  brown  of  her  dress  was  something  hand- 
some against  those  red  and  yellow  leaves,"  Cousin 
Debbie  interpolated. 

"  And  where  did  you  go  on  your  wedding-trip?  " 
Phoebe  continued. 

"  Niagara  Falls,"  Mrs.  Martin  said  proudly. 

"  Niagara  Falls!  "  Phoebe  repeated  in  a  scandal- 
ized tone.  "Mother!  Father  Martin,  you  didn't 
go  to  that  jay  place?  " 

"  You  must  remember,  Phoebe,"  Mr.  Martin  an- 
swered, employing  the  quiet  voice  which  he  so  rarely 
used  with  his  daughter,  "  that  your  mother  and  I 
hadn't  the  advantage  of  your  advice  then.  There 
was  nobody  to  enlighten  us  and  so  we  were  vulgar 
enough  to  enjoy  what  is,  after  all,  the  most  wonder- 
ful sight  in  America." 

"  Father,"  Phoebe  threatened,  "  if  you  get  sar- 
castic with  me,  I  shall  come  over  there  and  hug  you 
so  hard  that  I'll  probably  break  your  glasses." 

Mr.  Martin  did  not  reply.  He  reached  for  his 
book. 

"  But  just  the  same,"  Phoebe  went  on,  "  it's  an 
awful  shock  to  have  Niagara  Falls  flashed  on  me  at 


134  Phoebe  Closes  with  Cupid 

this  late  day.  After  the  way  Fve  trusted  you,  too. 
You  should  have  kept  it  a  dead  secret/' 

Mr.  Martin  maintained  an  elaborate  silence.  His 
eye  ran  up  and  down  the  page,  discovered  his  place. 

"  Why,  father,"  Phoebe  continued  the  attack,  "  if 
that  awful  event  in  our  family  history  were  to  leak 
out,  many  doors  now  open  to  me  in  this  town  would 
be  closed  forever.  I  expect  they  wouldn't  give  Ern 
his  degree  at  Princeton." 

Mr.  Martin  paused  with  a  careful  unconscious- 
ness to  examine  an  illustration. 

"  I  feel,"  Phoebe  concluded,  "  as  if  I'd  suddenly 
discovered  that  you'd  done  time.  I  don't  know 
whether  there's  any  law  that  permits  a  girl  to  repudi- 
ate parents  who  made  such  a  fierce  social  break 
before  she  was  born.  But  if  there  isn't,  there  ought 
to  be.  However  I'll  overlook  it  this  time,  Mr.  Mar- 
tin, if  you'll  give  me  your  sacred  word  of  honor  as 
a  gentleman  that  you'll  never  go  to  Niagara  Falls 
on  a  honeymoon  again." 

Mr.  Martin  laughed  and  put  his  book  down. 

Mrs.  Martin,  impassively  watching  this  conquest, 
made  one  of  her  automatic,  subconscious  observa- 
tions. "  Phoebe's  changed  in  one  thing,"  she 
thought.  "  She  used  to  be  amusing  without  know- 
ing it.  Now  she  realizes — she's  being  funny  on 
purpose."  It  is  unlikely,  however,  with  all  her 
astuteness  that  Mrs.  Martin  appreciated  the  im- 
portance of  the  birth  in  her  daughter's  psychology 
of  a  conscious  sense  of  humor. 

"  How  long  were  you  gone?  "  Phoebe  asked. 


"Thank    you,   Mrs.    Martin,"    she   said,    "you've   saved    my    life. 
Mother  and  father,  I  am  engaged  to  Tug  Warburton." 


Phoebe  Closes  with  Cupid  135 

"  Three  days,"  Mrs.  Martin  took  it  up  again. 

"  Seems  to  me  that  was  kind  of  a  stingy  honey- 
moon." 

"  We  were  glad  to  get  any."  Mrs.  Martin 
bristled. 

"  Did  you  have  many  wedding-presents?  " 

"  No-0-0.  Not  so  many  compared  with  nowa- 
days." Mrs.  Martin  admitted  this  with  a  palpable 
reluctance.  "  But  what  we  had  were  lovely,"  she 
added  loyally. 

"  They  were  the  handsomest  wedding-presents 
they  had  in  North  Campion  that  year,"  said  Cousin 
Debbie  with  an  indignant  flutter. 

Another  long  pause  followed.  Phoebe  now  bore 
the  air  of  one  definitely  nonplussed.  "  Mother," 
she  burst  out  desperately  at  last,  "  how  did  you  tell 
your  mother  that  you  were  engaged  to  father?  " 

"  Well,"  Mrs.  Martin  admitted,  "  that  was  the 
hardest  part  of  the  whole  thing.  I  held  in  three 
days  because  I  didn't  know  how  to  put  it.  And, 
finally,  the  third  night,  I  walked  right  up  to  them 
and,  before  I  could  stop  to  think,  I  said,  '  Mother 
and  father,  I  am  engaged  to  Ed  Martin !  '  and  that 
was  all  there  was  to  it." 

Phoebe  leaped  to  her  feet.  "  Thank  you,  Mrs. 
Martin,"  she  said,  "  youVe  saved  my  life.  Mother 
and  father,  I  am  engaged  to  Tug  Warburton." 

And  with  an  embarrassed  little  giggle  that  was 
half-sob,  Phoebe  flew  over  to  the  rocking-chair, 
dropped  into  Mrs.  Martin's  lap,  and  buried  her  head 
on  her  mother's  shoulder. 


136  Phoebe  Closes  with  Cupid 

"  Well,"  Mrs.  Martin  said  when  they  were  alone, 
"how  do  you  feel  about  it,  father?  Were  you 
surprised?  " 

"  Oh,  I  guess  nothing  surprises  me  as  far  as 
you-women  are  concerned,"  Mr.  Martin  answered. 
"  Then  I'm  so   glad  to  think  she's   all   over  that 

Hazeltine  affair  that And  I  suppose  I'd  rather 

it  would  be  Tug  if  it's  got  to  be " 

"  If  it's  got  to  be  anybody,"  Mrs.  Martin  fin- 
ished for  him.  M  Men  are  so  queer — so  different 
from  women.    I'm  just  tickled  to  death." 

Mr.  Martin  looked  at  her  silently,  but  many  ex- 
pressions conflicted  in  his  face.  "  Bertha,  I  must 
say  I  can't  understand  your  feeling  so  pleased 
about  it.  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  want  to 
lose  Phoebe?" 

"  Why,  father,  it's  not  losing  her.  Still,  I  guess 
most  mothers  do  feel  sort  of  relieved  when  a  girl's 
safely  settled.  I'd  look  at  it  very  differently  if  it 
was  Ernie.  I  don't  want  that  Ernie  should  get  mar- 
ried before  he's  twenty-seven  and  I  should  prefer 
him  to  wait  until  he's  thirty." 

"  Now  that's  where  I  disagree  with  you,"  Mr. 
Martin  said  argumentatively.  "  I'd  rather  Ernest 
would  marry  just  as  soon  as  he  gets  out  of  college. 
There's  nothing  like  the  responsibility  of  a  family 
to  sober  a  young  man  and  keep  his  nose  to  the 
grindstone.  But  a  girl — that's  quite  a  different 
matter.  What's  Phoebe  want  to  marry  for? 
Hasn't  she  got  a  good  home  and  everything  she 
could  possibly  need?"     Mr.  Martin's  voice  arose 


Phoebe  Closes  with  Cupid  137 

almost  to  falsetto  heights  as  he  asked  the  question 
immemorial  with  fathers. 

Mrs.  Martin,  as  was  her  wont,  worked  back  to 
its  answer  through  a  series  of  side  issues.  "  Well, 
it  would  simply  break  my  heart  if  Ernie  got  mar- 
ried so  young.  I  don't  want  to  see  him  go  through 
what  you  went  through  the  first  five  years  of  our 
marriage.  Why,  Edward,  your  hair  began  to  turn 
gray  before  you  were  twenty-five.  Phoebe  says  that 
Mr.  Warburton  says  that  Tug  can  travel  about 
this  district  until  after  Thanksgiving — that's  three 
weeks.  Then  he's  got  to  spend  six  months  in  the 
West.  If  he  gets  orders  above  a  certain  amount, 
Mr.  Warburton  will  give  him  a  handsome  raise  in 
salary."  Mrs.  Martin  stopped  an  instant  to  study 
her  husband's  face.  "  You  see,  father,  a  girl  likes 
to  have  a  home  of  her  own.  She  can  do  just  as 
she  pleases  in  it  and  she  feels  so  much  more  impor- 
tant." Again  Mrs.  Martin  stopped,  and  this  time 
she  had  a  helpless  expression.  "  Now,  Ed,  don't 
say  I  haven't  warned  you.  I've  told  you  for  years 
that  you  must  expect  that  Phoebe  would  marry 
young.  It's  come  now  and  you  must  take  your 
medicine: — that's  all." 

"Well,  I'm  not  kicking,  am  I?"  Mr.  Martin 
asked  in  a  tone  that  surged  and  swelled  and  beat 
with  irritation. 

Mrs.  Martin  let  that  discussion  evaporate.  "  I 
guess  we'd  better  give  her  a  chest  of  silver  for  a 
wedding-gift,"  she  said  after  a  long  pause. 

There  is  no  onomatopeia  for  the  sound,  half- 


138  Phoebe  Closes  with  Cupid 

groan  of  impatience,  half-snort  of  anger  that  Mr. 
Martin  emitted.  "  Wedding-presents !  Good  Lord ! 
What's  the  use  of  talking  about  wedding-presents? 
She  isn't  going  to  be  married  to-morrow,  is  she?  " 

11  No,"  Mrs.  Martin  replied  tranquilly,  "  but  I 
shouldn't  be  surprised  if  they  were  married  in  June. 
Tug  isn't  the  kind  that'll  wait  long.  And  I  made  up 
my  mind  years  ago  that  when  Phoebe  was  married 
that  would  be  what  we'd  give  her." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you've  been  plan- 
ning her  wedding-present  all  these  years?"  Mr. 
Martin  ejaculated.    "  Well,  you-women " 

"  Edward  Martin,"  his  wife  announced  with  a 
sudden  flash  of  spirit,  "  if  you  say  '  you-women  ' 
again  I'll  go  down  to-morrow  and  join  the  women- 
suffragists."  But  immediately  her  tone  dropped  to 
its  most  soothing  level.  "  Now,  father,  don't  get 
blue  about  this.  Everything  considered,  it's  the  best 
thing  that  could  happen  to  Phoebe.  Tug's  a  fine, 
straightforward,  decent  boy  with  no  bad  habits,  and 
he's  perfectly  crazy  about  her.  They'll  live  right 
here  in  Maywood  where  you'll  see  her  every  day. 
His  prospects  are  splendid.  His  father  and 
mother'll  worship   the   ground   Phoebe  walks   on. 

And  if  she  has  any  children "     Mrs.  Martin 

did  not  pursue  that  train  of  thought.  "  I  think 
we'd  better  give  her  a  cedar  chest  for  an  engage- 
ment gift." 

"  What — do  I  get  stung  for  an  engagement  gift, 
too?  "  Mr.  Martin  demanded. 

"  Of  course.     I'll  go  into  Boston  with  Phoebe 


Phoebe  Closes  with  Cupid  139 

to-morrow  and  order  a  nice  big  one.  I'll  buy  some 
linen,  too.  Phoebe'll  think  that  she'll  want  to  do 
every  stitch  herself.  But  if  anything's  to  be  finished 
before  the  wedding,  I  see  where  Debbie  and  I  go 
right  straight  to  work.  Besides  the  sooner  I  get 
things  started  the  better;  for  this  house  will  be  full 
of  excitement  in  a  week.  Phoebe  and  Tug'll  have 
the  loveliest  time  from  now  until  he  goes  West. 
Everybody  in  this  town  will  entertain  them.  They're 
both  popular,  and  then  everybody  likes  Mrs.  War- 
burton  so." 

11  Well,"  Mr.  Martin  remarked  cynically,  "  I 
have  my  opinion  of  the  kind  of  young  men  they 
have  nowadays.  Why,  I'd  as  soon  get  married  in 
a  lion's  cage  as  go  to  a  lot  of  pink  teas." 

"  You  must  remember,  father,"  Mrs.  Martin  ex- 
plained, and  perhaps  it  was  natural  that  her  effort 
to  defend  her  daughter's  contemporaries  should 
bring  a  slight  shade  of  patronage  into  her  voice, 
"  that  Tug  has  been  brought  up  very  different  from 
the  way  we  were.  He's  been  accustomed  to  the 
most  elegant  forms  of  entertaining.  His  mother's 
had  an  '  at  home  '  day  all  her  life,  and  she  told  me 
once  that,  from  the  moment  Tug  could  speak,  she 
had  him  in  the  room  whenever  she  had  company 
so's  he'd  get  accustomed  to  talking  with  women. 
Have  you  ever  noticed  how  easy  Tug  is  with  every- 
body? He  never  had  any  awkward  age  like  Ernie. 
He'll  enjoy  all  the  things  that  are  done  for  them 
just  as  much  as  Phoebe.  And  people  are  so  lovely 
to  engaged  couples  nowadays." 


140  Phoebe  Closes  with  Cupid 

Mr.  Martin  did  not  answer.  But  perhaps  in  the 
course  of  their  whole  married  life  his  silence  had 
never  been  more  eloquent. 

Mrs.  Martin  ignored  this  silence.  It  is  likely,  in- 
deed, that  she  did  not  notice  it.  She  was  engaged 
in  what  was  a  rare  form  of  exercise  for  her — walk- 
ing excitedly  up  and  down  the  room. 

"  Do  you  know,  father,"  she  said  suddenly,  turn- 
ing to  him  a  face  that  alternately  paled  and  sparkled 
with  the  excitement  of  a  great  resolution,  "  the  mo- 
ment the  engagement's  announced,  I'm  going  to  give 
a  tea  for  Phoebe  and  Tug  myself." 

Mr.  Martin  threw  up  his  hands. 

Everything  turned  out  as  Mrs.  Martin  prophesied. 
Late  the  next  afternoon  arrived  the  glossy,  reddish, 
rectangular  box  which  was  the  cedar  chest.  It  was 
perhaps  indicative  of  Mr.  Martin's  state  of  mind 
that  he  never  looked  at  it  without  thinking  of  a 
coffin.  That  evening  Tug's  father  and  mother 
called;  Mrs.  Warburton  gurgling  and  inarticulate 
with  delight,  Mr.  Warburton  embarrassed  and 
jocular.  The  day  after  this  event,  Phoebe  deposited 
in  the  post  office  a  flock  of  tiny  envelopes  which  an- 
nounced to  an  astonished  world  the  most  important 
event  of  her  life;  also  they  invited  it  to  celebrate 
the  betrothal  at  a  tea.  Before  a  week  had  passed, 
most  of  these  envelopes  returned  in  the  form  either 
of  a  gift  or  of  an  invitation  to  dissipation.  The 
postman  appeared  three  times  a  day  loaded  with 
mail;  the  expressman  was  ever  at  the  door. 


Phoebe  Closes  with  Cupid  141 

Arrived  first  for  Phoebe  from  the  far-away  Er- 
nest a  framed  picture  of  the  Princeton  campus  and 
for  Tug  from  the  same  source,  a  telegram,  "  Thank 
Heaven,  Phoebe's  picked  out  somebody  I  can  borrow 
money  from."  Close  on  the  Warburton  call  fol- 
lowed a  tea-service  of  Sheffield  plate,  over  which 
in  a  rapture  of  admiration,  Mrs.  Martin  actually 
brooded.  From  the  rank  and  file  of  relatives  and 
friends  came  flowers,  cups,  spoons,  plates,  pictures, 
vases,  books — the  advertisements  of  any  depart- 
ment-store will  show  them  all  neatly  catalogued. 
Mrs.  Martin  was  more  affected  by  this  excitement 
than  any  other  member  of  the  household.  When 
the  bell  rang,  she  dropped  whatever  she  was  doing 
to  run,  scissors  in  hand,  to  the  door.  In  pity,  Phoebe 
left  orders  with  her  mother  to  open  any  parcel  that 
came  during  her  absence. 

Mr.  Martin  alone  walked  through  this  alien 
absorption  a  silent  and  apparently  indifferent  man. 
He  went  to  his  office  as  early  as  possible  in  the 
morning  and  came  home  as  late.  The  two  evenings 
of  the  week  that  Tug  managed  to  make  Maywood 
he  spent  away  from  his  home.  Indeed,  after  his 
first  talk  with  his  future  son-in-law — palpably  on 
Mr.  Martin's  part  of  a  forced  cordiality — he 
avoided  all  communication  with  him.  Whatever  the 
conversation  Mr.  Martin  opened  with  his  wife,  it 
invariably  turned  to  furniture,  china,  silver,  linen. 
Whatever  the  conversation  he  opened  with  Phoebe, 
it  invariably  switched  to  the  cost  of  living.  Try  as 
he  might,  it  would  have  been  impossible  for  Mr. 


142  Phoebe  Closes  with  Cupid 

Martin  to  ignore  the  signs  of  the  approaching  do- 
mestic secession.  Mrs.  Martin,  Cousin  Debbie,  and 
Phoebe  never  sat  down  nowadays  without  a  napkin 
or  a  towel  in  their  hands.  If  Mr.  Martin  lifted 
his  eyes  from  his  book,  they  always  fell  somewhere 
on  a  P.  M.  beautifully  embroidered.  If  Phoebe 
was  not  present  when  callers  came,  Mrs.  Martin  did 
the  honors  of  the  cedar  chest.  Fragments  of  her 
dissertation  were  always  floating  between  Mr.  Mar- 
tin and  his  reading. 

"  Yes,  Phoebe  says  she's  going  to  have  both  hers 
and  Tug's  monogram  on  all  her  tablecloths,  close 
to  the  center,  Tug's  opposite  where  she  sits  and 
hers  opposite  his  place — yes,  she's  going  to  have 
white  and  gold  soup-plates  with  her  monogram  in 
gold  on  them — yes,  Phoebe's  idea  is  to  have  a  dif- 
ferent kind  of  china  for  every  course,  the  soup  in 
white  and  gold,  the  meat  in  Canton  medallion,  the 
salad  in  some  Italian  ware,  and  the  dessert  in  Minton 
— yes,  that's  what  I  tell  her — it  does  sound  pretty 
expensive — no,  Phoebe  hasn't  made  up  her  mind 
what  kind  of  furniture  yet — yes,  those  little  ones 
are  guest-towels." 

In  brief,  Mr.  Martin  was  like  a  man  caught  on 
the  top  floor  of  a  burning  building.  Did  he  seek 
escape  by  the  elevator,  flames  beat  up  at  him  in 
sheets.  Did  he  turn  to  the  stairs,  smoke  volleyed 
over  him  in  clouds. 

"  Whatever  is  the  matter  with  Ed?  "  Cousin  Deb- 
bie said  again  and  again.  M  I  never  saw  him  so 
kinder  stand-offish  in  my  life." 


Phoebe  Closes  with  Cupid  143 

11  Oh,  he's  jealous,"  Mrs.  Martin  said  in  a  tone  in 
which  impatience  struggled  with  pity.  "  He  can't 
bear  to  think  there's  anybody  in  Phoebe's  life  more 
important  to  her  than  he  is.  The  poor  child  under- 
stands it  all  and  she's  trying  as  hard  as  she  can  to 
share  everything  with  him.  But  just  as  sure  as  she 
starts  to  discuss  anything  she's  interested  in,  Edward 
shuts  right  up.  The  only  thing  to  do  is  to  leave  him 
alone.  He'll  come  round  all  right.  All  fathers  are 
like  that,  I  guess." 

For  even  Mrs.  Martin  did  not  realize  how  deep 
the  dagger  had  gone. 

But  days  and  days  went  by  and  Mr.  Martin  did 
not  come  round. 

The  afternoon  of  her  tea  Mrs.  Martin  telephoned 
in  to  Boston  and  begged  him  to  come  home  early 
enough  to  get  the  tail  end  of  it.  Dinner  was  long 
past,  however,  before  he  put  in  an  appearance.  But 
Mrs.  Martin  choked  back  her  reproaches,  brought 
his  food  into  the  dining-room  herself.  She  sat  with 
him  while  he  ate.  Mr.  Martin  could  see  his  own 
face  reflected  in  the  sideboard  mirror  just  back  of 
her.  He  looked  white  and  exhausted.  But  Mrs. 
Martin 

Mrs.  Martin,  although  Mr.  Martin  did  not  real- 
ize it,  had  always  looked  ten  years  older  than  he. 
That  night  she  looked  ten  years  younger.  Her 
smart  new  gown  of  gray  chiffon  and  old  Cluny  had 
done  its  best  for  her  tall  spare  figure.  Her  coiffure 
had  not  departed  by  the  insurrection  of  a  single  lock 
from  the  marceled  mold  into  which  the  hairdresser 


144  Phoebe  Closes  with  Cupid 

had  turned  it.  The  radiance  of  the  afternoon's  ex- 
citement still  hung  over  her. 

"How'd  it  go?"  Mr.  Martin  asked  casually 
when  he  had  finished  eating. 

11  Oh,  beautifully,  Edward !  It  was  a  great  suc- 
cess. Almost  everybody  came — at  least  I  can't  think 
of  but  two  or  three  who  didn't,  though  I  haven't 
had  a  chance  yet  to  look  through  the  cards  and  com- 
pare them  with  Phoebe's  list.  It  is  perfectly  re- 
markable how  popular  Phoebe  is.  Well,  I  was 
proud  of  the  child — she  was  just  as  sweet  and  cordial 
to  the  last  person  who  came  as  the  first.  Several 
people  brought  her  presents.  You  remember  '  The 
Molly  Coddles ' — that  Sewing  Club  Phoebe  be- 
longed to.  Well,  they're  going  to  give  her  a 
luncheon  set  of  Swedish  weaving — each  girl  to  do  a 
piece.  And  old  Mrs.  Sawyer  sent  her  three  of  the 
prettiest  little  aprons  you  ever  saw  in  your  life — 
Phoebe's  just  crazy  about  them.  It  seems — I'd  for- 
gotten all  about  it — that  when  Phoebe  came  home 
from  Europe  she  brought  Mrs.  Sawyer  a  Roman 
scarf  because  she'd  heard  her  say  she'd  always 
wanted  one.  Mrs.  Sawyer  said  she  never  would 
forget  that.  And,  Edward,  she  put  every  stitch  in 
them  herself — that  old  lady!  Why,  she  must  be 
eighty-two.  And  Mr.  Wilde  brought  her  a  framed 
picture  of  a  colored  fashion-plate  from  Godey's 
1  Lady's  Book.'    Phoebe's  just  wild  about  it." 

"Did  Tug  come?" 

11  Oh,  yes,  of  course !  I  got  the  idea  that  Tug 
had  had  some  sort  of  disagreement  with  his  mother 


Phoebe  Closes  with  Cupid  145 

before  he  came  over  here.  Not  that  anything  was 
said — I  just  felt  it  sort  of  in  the  air.  I  must  say 
I  do  think  Mrs.  Warburton's  a  little  too  indulgent 
with  Tug.  I  wouldn't  like  to  think  I'd  been  so  easy 
with  Ernie." 

"  Well,  calm  yourself  on  that  score,  Bertha,"  Mr. 
Martin  said  saturninely.  "  You  certainly  have  been 
a  Spartan  mother,  especially  as  far  as  Ernest's  con- 
cerned. What's  the  next  excitement?  "  he  asked 
after  a  while. 

"  Oh,  something  perfectly  lovely,"  Mrs.  Martin 
said  in  the  tone  of  one  who  enumerates  her  Christ- 
mas gifts.  "  You  see,  Tug  doesn't  get  home  again 
until  next  Wednesday.  And  that  day  Mrs.  Marsh 
is  giving  a  dinner  for  a  dozen  young  people  at  the 
Touraine  and  a  theater-party  at  the  Hollis  Street 
afterwards.  She  invited  Mrs.  Warburton  and  me 
to  go,  too.  She  says  she  won't  have  a  good  time 
at  all,  alone  with  those  young  people.  Mrs.  War- 
burton  and  I  didn't  have  to  be  asked  twice,  I  tell 
you.  Mrs.  Warburton  says  she's  glad  she  hasn't 
more  than  one  son  to  get  married  because  ever  since 
the  engagement  was  announced,  her  house  has  run 
itself.  She  says  she's  so  excited  she  doesn't  know 
whether  she's  on  her  head  or  her  heels — and  I  feel 
exactly  the  same  way.  She  said  that  yesterday  she 
made  up  her  mind  that  she  would  stay  home  from 
the  Tate  tea  and  rest  up.  But  at  four  o'clock,  there 
she  was  pelting  down  there." 

"Where's  Phoebe?" 

"  Oh,  she's  upstairs,  lying  down.     She's  all  tuck- 


146  Phoebe  Closes  with  Cupid 

ered  out.  I'm  not  the  least  bit  tired — I  could  go 
right  through  it  again.  I'm  trying  to  get  calmed 
down  enough  to  take  this  dress  off.  You'll  have  to 
help  me,  Edward,  there  are  more  than  a  million 
hooks.  Oh,  yes!  Edward,  Mrs.  Marsh  says  she 
wants  you  to  go  to  the  theater-party  and  she  says 
she  simply  will  not  take  no  for  an  answer.  She  says 
there'll  be  an  end-seat  kept  for  you  and,  if  you  don't 
come,  it  will  remain  vacant  all  the  evening." 

"  You'll  have  to  tell  Mrs.  Marsh,"  Mr.  Martin 
said  decidedly,  "  that  I  shan't  be  there.  I'm  too 
busy." 

"  Well,"  Mrs.  Martin  said,  "  isn't  it  lovely  of 
her  to  bother  so?  If  they'd  only  entertained  en- 
gaged couples  when  we  were  young,  how  we  would 
have  enjoyed  it!  " 

Instead  of  answering,  "  How  long  does  Tug  stay 
next  week?  "  Mr.  Martin  inquired  obliquely. 

"  He  gets  in  Wednesday  afternoon  late  and  goes 
off  early  the  next  morning." 

When  Mr.  Martin  spoke  again,  it  was  evident 
that  he  was  making  an  effort  to  keep  his  scorn  out 
of  his  voice.  But  now  he  answered  his  wife's  ques- 
tion. "  No,  all  this  entertaining  would  have  been 
wasted  on  me.  Do  you  suppose  I'd  put  in  a  whole 
afternoon  and  evening  at  a  party  when  I  hadn't  seen 
you  for  so  long?  I  was  too  crazy  about  my  girl. 
If  there's  anything  I  despise,  it's  a  man  who  goes 
to  teas." 

And  again,  under  the  impression  that  she  was 
pouring  oil  on  a  troubled  sea,  Mrs.  Martin  said 


Phoebe  Closes  with  Cupid  147 

sweetly:  "But,  Edward,  you  must  remember  Tug 
was  brought  up  very  different  from  us." 

"  Oh,  Edward,"  Mrs.  Martin  said  late  Wednes- 
day night,  "  I  looked  for  you  all  the  evening.  I 
did  hope  you'd  get  there  for  the  last  act." 

"  I'm  sorry,  Bertha,"  Mr.  Martin  answered  list- 
lessly, "  but  I  had  a  meeting  and  couldn't  get  away. 
Did  you  have  a  good  time?  " 

"  Lovely,  perfectly  lovely!  It  was  such  a  pretty 
dinner.  We  had  a  big  round  table  in  the  middle  of 
the  dining-room  at  the  Touraine  and  it  was  beauti- 
fully decorated  with  flowers.  All  those  young  girls 
looked  like  flowers  themselves  in  their  pretty 
dresses.  There  was  Phoebe,  Fonnie  Marsh,  Molly 
Tate,  the  Gould  twins,  Sylvia,  Tug,  Fred  Partland, 
the  Warren  boys,  Tom  Deane,  and  Billy  Thurston. 
Of  course  Tug  and  Phoebe  hadn't  seen  each  other 
for  a  week  and  they  simply  were  full  of  things  to 
tell  each  other.  And  pretty  soon  everybody  got  to 
joking  them  and  finally  somebody  said,  '  Oh,  let's 
cut  the  engaged  pair  out — they're  dead  to  the  world 
— and  pretend  the  dinner's  given  for  Mrs.  Martin.' 
And,  Edward,  everybody  paid  so  much  attention  to 
me  that  I  was  quite  embarrassed.  Then  afterwards,, 
we  three  mothers  sat  together  in  the  theater  and  we 
had  so  much  fun — I  really  think  we  enjoyed  it  more 
than  the  young  people." 

"  Phoebe  go  right  up  to  bed?  "  Mr.  Martin  asked. 

"Yes,  poor  child;  she's  all  worn  out.  She  says 
she's  glad  she  hasn't  got  to  be  engaged  but  once." 


148  Phoebe  Closes  with  Cupid 

"  Well,  what's  on  the  docket  now?  " 

"  Tug's  going  to  be  home  Tuesday  until  Satur- 
day of  next  week.  Somebody's  got  something 
planned  for  every  moment,"  said  Mrs.  Martin, 
"  and  Tuesday  night  Mrs.  Warburton's  going  to 
give  a  dinner-dance.  You  see,  it's  a  sort  of  farewell, 
for  Tug  leaves  Saturday  for  his  six  months'  trip 
in  the  West.  The  dinner-dance  is  going  to  be  an 
awfully  big  affair — Mrs.  Warburton  has  so  many 
friends  in  Brookline  and  Cambridge  and  Arlington. 
She's  going  to  turn  the  whole  lower  floor  of  her 
house  into  a  dining-room  with  little  tables  that  will 
just  seat  four.  Then  afterwards  she's  going  to 
have  them  all  taken  in  barges  to  the  Town  Hall, 
where  the  dance'll  be  held.  She's  asked  me  to  re- 
ceive with  her  and  Phoebe.  Now,  Edward,  you've 
simply  got  to  come  to  that.  It  will  be  an  insult  to 
Mrs.  Warburton  if  you  don't." 

uYes,  I'll  try  to  make' it,"  Mr.  Martin  agreed. 
He  struggled  with  himself  for  an  instant  as  if  trying 
not  to  say  something.  But  he  succeeded  only  par- 
tially, for  he  added,  "  Well,  people  have  certainly 
changed." 

"  It  isn't  the  folks  that  have  changed,  Edward," 
Mrs.  Martin  said  for  the  third  time,  "  it's  the  times. 
They  do  things  differently  from  the  way  they  did 
when  we  were  young." 

The  day  of  the  Warburton  dance,  the  excitement 
in  the  Martin  household  was  increased  by  Ernest's 
return  from  Princeton  for  Thanksgiving. 

11  Tell  me  all  about  it,"  were  his  first  words  to 


Phoebe  Closes  with  Cupid  149 

Phoebe,  and  "  Say,  Tug,  did  you  get  your  degree 
from  Harvard  or  Vassar?  "  his  comment  when  his 
sister  complied  with  his  request.  "  Teas,  dinners, 
dances,  theater-parties — whew !  "  Thereafter  he  re- 
ferred to  his  prospective  brother-in-law  either  as 
Wellesley  Bill,  Radcliffe  Mike,  or  Bryn  Mawr 
Charley. 

Two  o'clock  that  afternoon  saw  Mr.  Martin 
slowly  turning  into  his  own  street.  He  looked  tired. 
Almost  it  might  be  said  he  looked  lonely.  The 
Warburton  automobile  was  standing  in  front  of  the 
Martin  gate,  and  as  he  passed  a  muffled  u  Hullo  " 
from  underneath  the  car  arrested  him.  Mr.  Martin 
stopped  and  Tug  came  wriggling  out  into  the  gutter. 
He  seated  himself  on  the  curb  and  began  to  fan 
himself  with  his  cap. 

"  Say,  dad-in-law,"  he  demanded,  "  can  you  keep 
a  secret?  " 

"  Easiest  thing  I  do,"  Mr.  Martin  replied. 

"  Well,  then,  neither  Phoebe  nor  I  will  be  at  that 
shindig  my  mother's  giving  to-night.  Fm  so  tired 
of  this  pink  tea  business  that  I'd  like  to  put  a  bomb 
under  the  next  one.  I  can't  tell  you  how  I  hate  a 
tea,  notwithstanding  my  mother  is  convinced  that 
she's  brought  me  up  to  love  them.  I  nearly  had  a 
fight  with  her  over  the  one  your  wife  gave.  I  put 
my  foot  down  and  said  I  wouldn't  go.  But  mother 
said  that  as  Phoebe's  people  were  giving  it,  I'd  be 
a  hound  if  I  didn't  put  in  an  appearance.  Well,  I 
fell.  Then  Mrs.  Marsh's  party  came  along.  Same 
row.     Same  line  of  dope.     I  fell  again.     Now  my 


150  Phoebe  Closes  with  Cupid 

own  mother's  giving  a  spree  and  I'm  going  to  cut 
it.     It'll  be  Hamlet  to-night  with  Hamlet  left  out." 

Mr.  Martin  sat  down  on  the  curb  beside  him. 
"  What's  Phoebe  say?" 

"  Oh,  Lord,  Phoebe  doesn't  know  anything  about 
it.  She's  just  as  tired  of  all  this  entertaining  as  I 
am,  but,  being  a  woman,  she'd  feel  in  honor  bound. 
It's  the  only  flaw  in  perfection;  so  I'm  not  telling 
her." 

"  What's  the  plan?  "  Mr.  Martin  inquired. 

11  Rich  but  not  gaudy!  I'm  abducting  her!  We 
start  in  a  few  moments,  ostensibly  for  a  little  spin. 
Using  the  spellbinding  arts  for  which  I  am  justly 
famous,  I  shall  lure  her  farther  and  farther  from 
home  until  we're  in  the  vicinity  of  North  Shayne- 
ford.  I've  calculated  that  the  machine  will  stop 
going  on  the  lower  road  between  Alewive  Creek  and 
the  bottle-works,  for  I've  put  in  only  enough  gasoline 
to  last  as  long  as  that.  There's  no  train  from  North 
Shayneford  until  eleven  and  then  we've  got  to  go 
into  Boston  first — oh,  I've  laid  my  plans  with  hell- 
ish subtlety — Desperate  Desmond  has  nothing  on 
me.  And  I'm  going  to  slip  it  over  on  them.  I 
leave  the  auto  in  care  of  my  friend  the  superin- 
tendent of  the  bottle-works.  Then  we  walk  three 
miles  up  the  road  to  the  Shayneford  Arms  and  have 
a  nice  tete-a-tete  dinner  and  get  acquainted  with  each 
other.  If  we're  going  to  be  married  it's  time  we 
knew  each  other's  real  names.  We'll  drift  into  the 
dance  about  half-past  twelve.  I'm  telling  you  this 
so  they  won't  drag  the  river.     To-morrow  I  read 


Phoebe  Closes  with  Cupid  1511 

the  riot  act  to  my  mother.  I'm  leaving  in  three  days 
and  I  intend  to  have  my  girl  all  to  myself.  After 
I'm  gone,  they  can  give  Phoebe  all  the  shower 
luncheons,  tempest  teas,  cyclone  dinners,  and  bliz- 
zard breakfasts  they  want.    See !  " 

Mr.  Martin  did  not  speak  for  an  instant.  And, 
perhaps  in  that  interval,  he  crossed  a  bridge.  What 
came  finally  was,  "  Son-in-law,  I  think  I'm  going  to 
like  you." 

"  Dad-in-law,"  said  Tug  promptly,  "  it  has  al- 
ways been  my  conviction  that  I,  too,  picked  a 
winner." 

They  went  into  the  house  together.  Phoebe  met 
them  at  the  door.  "  Well,  Mr.  Edward  Martin," 
she  exclaimed,  putting  her  hand  through  her  father's 
arm,  "  who's  left  you  a  million  dollars?  I  thought 
you'd  got  a  permanent,  self-sustaining,  and  self-per- 
petuating grouch.  But  I  suppose,  on  reflection, 
you've  realized  that  this  domestic  tyrannicide  of 
yours  would  have  to  bust  sometime.  The  moment 
is  fast  approaching,  sir,  when  you've  got  to  forego 
the  joy  of  dragging  me  up  and  down  stairs  by  the 
hair  of  my  head  or  keeping  me  confined  for  a  month 
on  bread  and  water.    Why,  I " 

But  from  the  living-room  came  commotion  that 
compelled  scrutiny. 

Mrs.  Cameron,  the  minister's  wife,  was  calling. 
She  was  a  stout,  white-haired,  middle-aged  woman 
with  clear  hazel  eyes,  dimples,  and  the  laughter  of 
youth.  Her  husband,  the  Reverend  Dugald  Cam- 
eron, was  a  saint,  but  she  was,  as  Ernest  once  told 


152  Phoebe  Closes  with  Cupid 

her,  "  a  very  zippy  lady  for  a  sky-pilot's  bride." 
Perhaps  her  sense  of  a  large  social  freedom  pro- 
ceeded from  the  possession  of  a  large  fortune.  Her 
given  name  was  Essaline.  Whenever  they  were 
alone,  Ernest  treated  her  with  the  profoundest  re- 
spect but,  in  company,  he  always  called  her  "  Essie." 
Now  he  was  entertaining  her  with  the  contents  of 
the  cedar  chest.  He  had  listened  to  Mrs.  Martin's 
performance  only  twice,  but  he  already  knew  by 
heart  what  he  called  the  u  spiel."  As  the  group 
came  in  from  the  hall,  Mrs.  Cameron  tottered  to 
the  couch  in  a  futile  effort  to  calm  her  hysterics. 

"  I  wouldn't  laugh — so — if  he'd  got  things — 
mixed,"  she  gasped,  "  but  he's  got  them  right — 
Swedish  weaving — Mexican  drawn-work — baby 
Irish — I  shall  die — I  know  I  shall." 

"  Essie,"  Ernest  rebuked  her  severely,  "  you  are 
the  noisiest  woman  I  ever  met.  You  laugh  like  that 
once  more  and  the  house  will  be  pinched." 

"  Don't  you  dare  speak  to  me  again,  Ernest  Mar- 
tin," Mrs.  Cameron  ordered,  sopping  up  her  tears. 
"  So  you  go  away  next  week,  Tug?  What's  the  ex- 
citement for  the  remainder  of  your  stay?  " 

While  Tug  still  racked  his  brains,  Mrs.  Martin 
glibly  recited  the  program. 

11  Bridge  to-morrow  afternoon  at  the  Deanes', 
dance  in  the  evening  at  the  Goulds'.  Tea  Thursday 
at  Mrs.  Partland's.  Dance  at  the  High  School  in 
the  evening.  Tea  Friday  at  the  Marsh's — bridge 
in  the  evening  with  Mrs.  Gould.  And  we're  all 
going." 


Phoebe  Closes  with  Cupid  153 

Tug  winked  at  Mr.  Martin. 

"  It's  perfectly  lovely  how  they  entertain  engaged 
couples  nowadays,"  Mrs.  Martin  said.  "  They 
never  did  such  things  when  I  was  young.  And  what 
I  like  about  it  is  that  the  men  enjoy  it  just  as  much 
as  the  girls." 

Mr.  Martin  winked  at  Tug. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  DISCOVERIES 

The  Waldorf. 
New  York. 
Monday. 

MY  dear  Bertha: 
I  got  in  this  morning  all  right.  I  saw  Hallo- 
well  and  fixed  that  matter  up  in  no  time.  I  shall 
be  all  through  with  it  in  a  day  or  two.  They  certainly  do 
things  in  this  town  and  do  them  quick.  I  could  get  back 
Thursday  morning.  But  I  think  I'll  seize  this  opportunity 
to  run  down  to  Princeton  to  see  Ernest.  You  know  I've 
never  had  much  curiosity  to  go  there  because — well,  I  guess 
I  never  let  you  know  what  a  disappointment  it  was  to  me 
that  he  didn't  go  to  Harvard.  But  somehow  in  the  last 
month  or  so  I've  had  a  sort  of  hankering  to  see  college-life 
once  more.  I  feel  as  if  I'd  been  getting  a  little  rusty  and 
that  would  set  me  up.  It  may  be  spring  fever  but,  after 
all,  that's  a  conviction  a  man  never  loses — that  there  was 
a  kind  of  gayety  about  his  college  days  never  to  be  found 
anywhere  else,  that  he  can  go  back  to  any  time  and  take  up. 
Anyway,  I'd  like  to  have  one  more  taste  before  I  admit  that 
I'm  middle-aged.  Don't  expect  me  back  until  you  see  me, 
and  take  care  of  yourself.     Love  to  Phoebe ! 

Your  affectionate  husband, 

Edward  Martin. 
154 


The  Discoveries  155 

Maywood, 

Massachusetts. 

Tuesday. 
Dear  Edward: 

I  am  so  glad  that  you  are  going  to  see  Ernie.  Will  you 
find  out  if  he  got  the  new  winter  flannels  that  I  told  him  to 
buy  at  Christmas?  I  have  asked  him  this  question  in  every 
letter  I've  written  and  he  hasn't  answered  it  yet.  I  hope 
you  won't  come  home  feeling  about  college  life  the  way  I 
feel  about  Phoebe's  engagement.  Why,  Edward,  I  almost 
envy  her.  It's  such  a  lovely  time  when  a  girl's  engaged. 
Sometimes  I  think  it's  the  happiest  period  that  a  woman 
knows.  If  it  wasn't  for  having  your  own  home  and  a 
family,  I  declare  I  think  most  girls  would  be  willing  to  be 
engaged  all  the  rest  of  their  days.  It  does  seem  strange  that 
life  should  be  arranged  so  that  we  have  all  the  best  part 
first.  Stay  as  long  as  you  can,  Edward,  for  you  certainly 
do  need  a  rest.  I  shan't  feel  lonely  with  Debbie  here. 
Phoebe  sends  her  love. 

Your  loving  wife, 

Bertha. 

Maywood, 

Massachusetts. 
Tuesday. 
Dear  Ern: 

Mother  has  just  got  a  letter  from  father  saying  he  was 
going  down  to  Princeton  to  see  you  for  a  few  days.  Father 
hasn't  been  at  all  well  lately.  Nights  when  he  comes  home, 
he  seems  awfully  tired.  In  fact,  he  looks  all  in.  And  I 
want  you  to  see  that  he  doesn't  have  a  chance  to  think  of 


156  The  Discoveries 

business  while  he's  there.  Of  course  I  understand  that  it 
is  something  of  a  problem  to  entertain  one's  father  at  col- 
lege. For  though  we  have  the  best  parents  that  ever  chil- 
dren were  blessed  with,  it's  ridiculous  to  think  that  we  can 
ever  quite  understand  each  other.  They've  had  their  experi- 
ences and  we've  had  ours  and  of  course  there's  no — what 
you  might  call  neutral  ground — on  which  we  can  come 
together.  Personally  I  think  they  were  too  proper  in  those 
days  to  really  enjoy  themselves.  At  the  same  time,  Ern,  I 
don't  want  you  to  leave  a  stone  unturned  that  means  giving 
father  a  good  time.  And  if  you  need  any  extra  money, 
don't  ask  him  for  it.  I've  saved  up  eleven  dollars  and 
eighty- three  cents  and  I'll  gladly  contribute  it  to  the  cause. 

Your  aff.  sister, 

Phoebe. 

Princeton, 

New  Jersey. 

Wednesday. 
Dear  Phoeb: 

Say,  you  make  me  tired  asking  me  to  be  good  to  father 
and  offering  me  that  money.  I  guess  I'm  not  piker  enough 
—-or  tight-wad  enough — to  let  father  come  down  here  and 
not  do  anything  for  him.  I'll  turn  myself  inside  out.  And 
who  do  you  suppose  blew  in  yesterday  morning — Tug.  He's 
traveling  in  this  vicinity  for  a  few  days  and  he's  going  to 
make  Princeton  his  center.  He  was  tickled  to  death  to 
hear  father  was  coming.  Blanche  Williston  has  three  Rad- 
cliffe  girls  visiting  her — queens!  Did  you  ever  meet  any 
of  them — Eunice  Dunster,  Janet  George,  and  Nora  Riley 
— they  all  live  about  Boston.    Maybe  Sandy  and  I  haven't 


The  Discoveries  157 

jollied  them  within  an  inch  of  their  lives  about  Harvard. 
I  took  Tug  to  call  there  last  night  and  we  all  went  for 
a  long  walk.  I  think  Eunice  is  the  prettiest  but  Tug  is 
strong  for  Janet.  Tug's  writing  you  now  and  he'll  tell  you 
all  about  it.  The  Willistons  have  invited  us  there  for 
Saturday  evening  and  when  I  told  Sandy  that  father  would 
be  here,  he  said  to  bring  him  right  along.  Of  course  I  said 
I  would.  But  to  tell  the  truth  I'm  dreading  that  a  little, 
for  I'm  afraid  those  girls  won't  take  any  notice  of  father 
and  he'll  be  bored.  It  is  funny  when  you  stop  to  think  of 
it  how  many  more  experiences  and  so  much  more  inter- 
esting ones  the  young  people  of  to-day  have — compared  with 
what  father  and  mother  had.  I'm  glad  I  live  in  these 
times.     I  bet  it  was  slow  at  Harvard  when  father  went. 

Your  loving  brother, 

Ernest  Martin. 

The  picture  that  the  living-room  presented  was 
one  that  had  duplicated  itself  every  evening  for 
three  months — a  big  fire  burning  red,  a  big  student- 
lamp  gleaming  yellow,  a  big  center  table  dotted 
with  spools,  foaming  with  long-cloth,  lawn,  damask, 
glittering  with  scissors,  needles,  pins,  netted  with 
skeins  of  embroidery  linen,  cards  of  tape,  bundles 
of  lace.  On  one  side,  Mrs.  Martin,  stooped,  sweetly 
faded,  blonde,  rippled  monologues  placid  as  any 
so ftly-fl owing  brook.  On  the  other  side,  Cousin 
Debbie,  plump,  brown,  bright-eyed,  clucked  com- 
ments, excited  as  any  busy  hen. 

It  was  a  picture  that,  to  the  last  detail,  made  for 
cheer  and  charm.     But  to  Phoebe,  coming  swiftly 


158  The  Discoveries 

down  the  stairs,  dashing  even  more  swiftly  across 
the  hall,  and  pausing  for  a  silent  moment  in  the 
doorway,  it  apparently  carried  no  comfort.  She 
did  not  even  look  at  it.  She  stood  tall  and  tense, 
her  eyes  flashing  out  of  the  tangle  of  her  frown,  her 
teeth  biting  at  her  lip. 

"  Where  are  you  going,  little  daughter?"  Mrs. 
Martin  asked. 

Mrs.  Martin  did  not  raise  her  eyes  from  her  sew- 
ing. But  Cousin  Debbie,  turning  slightly,  surveyed 
with  a  certain  covertness  the  spirited  figure. 

"  To  post  this  letter,"  Phoebe  answered.  Invol- 
untarily her  grasp  tightened  on  the  bulky  envelope 
which  she  carried.  UI  want  it  to  get  the  last  mail." 
She  did  not  go  at  once,  however.  Her  gaze  slid 
past  the  tete-a-tete  pair,  probed  the  fire,  caught  on 
some  more  vivid  picture  there,  clutched,  held  tight. 

In  the  meantime  the  broken  conversation  at  the 
table  mended  itself.  Bits  of  fact  flashed  out  of  its 
many-faceted  composite. 

u  Oh,  yes,  the  boys  are  having  a  perfectly  lovely 
time,"  Mrs.  Martin  was  saying.  "  It  was  so  nice 
that  Tug  happened  to  be  there,  too.  Ernie  writes 
that  he  and  Tug  have  been  down  to  the  Willistons' 
all  the  time,  walking  or  motoring  with  those  four 
college  girls.    Edward'll  be  there  to-night  and " 

Phoebe  suddenly  flashed  about  and  darted 
through  the  hall.  The  front  door  shut.  The  bang 
which  unavoidably  proclaimed  arrival  or  departure 
to  the  Martin  household  seemed  to  ring  with  some- 
thing positively  vicious. 


The  Discoveries  159 

"  Phoebe  doesn't  seem  quite  herself  these  last  two 
or  three  days,  Bertha,"  said  Cousin  Debbie.  "  I 
don't  know  that  I've  ever  seen  her  so  sort  of  indif- 
ferent and  absent." 

11  I  hadn't  noticed  it,"  said  Mrs.  Martin.  She 
stopped  sewing  an  instant  and  her  face  assumed  the 
serious,  preoccupied  look  of  one  who  is  running 
swiftly  through  the  foreground  of  the  past.  "  I 
guess  it's  staying  indoors  and  sewing  so  hard.  She 
doesn't  get  so  very  much  exercise  with  both  Ernie 
and  Tug  away,  you  know.  And  I  have  never  been 
one  to  let  her  go  out  alone  at  night.  She  says  herself 
that  any  engaged  girl  whose — '  steady  '  she  calls 
him — is  away  might  just  as  well  be  dead.  It's  queer 
how  quiet  the  house  is.  So  few  young  men  come 
here  now." 

"  It  was  just  the  same  when  you  were  engaged 
to  Edward,"  said  Cousin  Debbie.  "  Don't  you  re- 
member how  lonesome  it  was  at  first?  All  the  boys 
stopped  coming — except  Jim  Bassett.  Do  you  recall 
how  jealous  Ed  used  to  get  of  him?  " 

Mrs.  Martin  laughed,  and  there  was  a  ring  of 
conscious  coquetry  to  her  mirth. 

Again  the  door  opened — shut  with  its  accustomed 
bang.    "  Is  that  rain,  Phoebe?  "  Mrs.  Martin  asked. 

"  Yes,"  Phoebe  answered  listlessly,  "  it's  pour- 
ing." 

The  two  women  took  up  their  talk;  and  this  time 
the  conversational  plummet  dropped  into  the  past. 
Apparently  Phoebe  heard  no  word  of  it.  She  sank 
into  a  chair  by  the  fire  and  stared  into  the  flames. 


160  The  Discoveries 

The  mental  knot  still  showed  itself  on  her  smooth 
forehead.  An  interval  of  this  stupor  and  she  jumped 
up,  dashed  into  the  hall,  flew  up  the  stairs  into  her 
own  room.  She  walked  up  and  down,  clasping  and 
unclasping  her  hands.  It  was  as  if  the  mental  knot 
had  begun  to  untie.  Then  she  threw  herself  face 
downward  on  the  bed,  buried  her  head  in  the  pillow. 

11  Sometimes  I  think,"  Cousin  Debbie  was  say- 
ing, "  it  worries  Phoebe — Tug's  being  on  the  road. 
I  think  it  frets  her  when  his  letters  don't  come.  I 
notice,  though,  that  when  one  day  goes  by  without 
one,  there's  always  two  the  next  day.  It's  dreadful, 
though,  his  being  away  after  the  engagement's  an- 
nounced. I  always  say  that's  the  hardest  position 
a  woman  can  be  placed  in." 

Phoebe  lay  on  her  bed  for  nearly  half  an  hour. 
Then  she  sat  up.  The  mental  knot  had  undoubtedly 
pulled  itself  loose.  All  the  fire  and  flame  had  gone 
out  of  her  manner.  Every  connotation  of  irreso- 
lution showed  itself  in  her  bowed  shoulders  and 
twisting  hands.  She  pulled  herself  to  her  feet 
finally,  drifted  slowly  over  to  the  cedar  chest,  lifted 
the  cover.  For  a  long  time  she  stood  staring  down 
on  what  lay  there — a  daintiness,  peculiarly  feminine, 
a  daintiness  of  embroidered  lawn,  of  lacy  ruffles,  of 
delicately  tinted  ribbon.  From  the  cedar  chest  she 
moved  over  to  the  highboy,  one  of  Aunt  Mary's 
scorned  mahogany  treasures,  recently  resurrected 
from  the  barn  because  of  its  many  drawers.  Pano- 
plied rows,  exquisitely  embroidered,  of  her  own 
initials,  stared  at  her  as  she  opened  the  drawers. 


The  Discoveries  161 

Suddenly  Phoebe  sank  into  a  chair  and  burst  into 
tears.  Rocking  convulsively  back  and  forth,  she 
cried  until  her  handkerchief  dripped.  Then  another 
impulse  took  her.  She  arose,  dashed  into  the  bath- 
room, bathed  her  face,  recombed  her  hair,  flew 
downstairs,  into  the  library,  took  up  the  telephone 
receiver. 

s 

"  What's  the  matter  with  the  telephone, 
mother?  "  her  distracted  voice  called  in  another  mo- 
ment. 

"  I  don't  know.  Something  happened  this  after- 
noon. I  notified  the  telephone  people  right  away, 
but  they  haven't  come  yet.  If  it's  anything  impor- 
tant, go  over  to  Mrs.  Warburton's." 

"  Oh,  it's  nothing  in  particular,"  said  Phoebe.  "  It 
can  wait."  But  her  teeth  tore  at  her  lip  again.  And 
now  her  brow  snarled  with  a  look  of  perplexity. 
She  resumed  her  place  at  the  fire,  resumed  her  study 
of  the  flames. 

Gradually  her  face  lightened.  An  idea — palpably 
it  fascinated  and  frightened  her,  palpably  again  and 
again  she  rejected  it  only  to  recover  it — seemed 
finally  to  harden  to  resolution.  She  arose,  strolled 
through  the  back  library,  strolled  through  the  hall, 
tiptoed  into  the  kitchen.  Opening  the  back  door 
carefully,  she  flashed  through  the  rain  to  the  barn. 
In  another  moment,  she  emerged  carrying  a  ladder. 
She  walked  with  it  round  to  the  side  of  the  house, 
placed  it  so  that  the  top  went  through  the  open 
window  of  her  room.  Then  re-entering  the  house, 
she  shut  the  back  door  silently,  tiptoed  through  the 


1 62  The  Discoveries 

kitchen,  strolled  through  the  hall,  strolled  into  the 
living-room  again. 

11  I  feel  awfully  tired,  mother,"  she  said  smoothly, 
taking  up  a  magazine,  "  I  propose  that  we  go  to  bed 
early  to-night." 

11  All  right,"  said  Mrs.  Martin  tranquilly. 

"  Bertha,"  Cousin  Debbie  said,  and  apparently 
she  was  striking  off  on  a  tangent  from  the  main 
course  of  their  talk,  "  were  you  ever  jealous  of  Ed- 
ward when  he  was  on  the  road?  " 

"  Jealous !  "  Mrs.  Martin  laughed.  "  I  should 
say  I  was.  Debbie,  I  never  told  you  about  Minnie 
Pratt,  did  I  ?  No,  I  know  I  didn't.  For  I've  never 
told  anybody.  Well,  I'm  going  to  tell  you  now.  Do 
you  remember  how  much  Edward's  traveling  those 
years  we  were  engaged  took  him  off  Seriph  Four 
Corners  way?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  seemed  as  if  he  was  always  there.  I 
remember  because  my  Aunt  Nabbie  lived  in  Seriph." 

"  Well,  there  was  a  girl  lived  there  that  he'd 
always  known — Minnie  Pratt.  They'd  been  sweet- 
hearts in  a  boy  and  girl  way.  She  was  a  kinder 
pretty  girl — if  you  liked  that  style — great  bold  black 
eyes  and  jet-black  hair  that  she  wore  in  those  beau- 
catcher  curls.  I  don't  know  as  you  ever  saw  it,  but 
there  was  a  picture  of  her  round  in  Edward's  room 
for  a  long  while." 

"  I  want  to  know !  I  always  thought  that  was 
some  relation  of  Edward's." 

"  Well— it  wasn't,"  said  Mrs.  Martin  with  em- 
phasis.    "  He  used  to  go  to  supper  at  their  house 


The  Discoveries  163 

whenever  he  was  in  Seriph — Mrs.  Pratt  had  been 
an  old  friend  of  his  mother's — and  of  course  some- 
times Edward  would  take  Minnie  places  as  a  sort 
of  return  for  their  hospitality.  Not  that  he  wasn't 
perfectly  fair  about  it.  She  knew  all  about  our 
engagement.  Well,  one  day — I  can't  recall  now  just 
what  it  was  made  me  mad;  but  I'd  been  getting  a 
lot  of  letters  with  too  much  Minnie  in  them.  And 
— and — well,  the  long  and  short  of  it  was  that  I  sat 
right  down  and  wrote  Edward  a  letter,  breaking 
the  engagement." 

"  Bertha,  you  don't!  "  said  Debbie,  horrified. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Martin  with  the  pride  we 
all  take  in  our  own  unreasonableness,  "  I  did.  And 
I  told  him  he  needn't  write  to  me,  for  I'd  tear  up, 
unread,  any  letter  he  sent  me.  I  did,  too.  They 
kept  coming  by  every  mail  for  two  weeks.  But 
he  couldn't  write  them  any  faster  than  I  could  tear 
them  up.    Then  all  of  a  sudden  they  stopped." 

Mrs.  Martin  also  stopped.  She  bit  off  a  piece 
of  thread,  thrust  it  into  the  eye  of  the  needle. 
Phoebe  lifted  her  gaze — for  five  minutes  it  had 
been  riveted  on  the  same  page  of  her  magazine — 
and  fixed  it  on  her  mother.  A  little  stir  of  interest 
rippled  across  her  face. 

11  It  was  one  thing  to  order  Edward  not  to  write 
and  it  was  another  to  have  him  take  me  at  my  word. 
I  put  in  the  most  dreadful  week  I  have  ever  known 
in  all  my  life  except  when  the  children  have  been 
sick.  I  certainly  thought  I  would  die.  My  pride 
would  not  let  me  give  in.     But  I  said  to  myself  if 


164  The  Discoveries 

Edward  would  only  write  me  one  more  letter,  I'd 
make  up.  And,  oh,  how  I  looked  for  it!  But  it 
didn't  come  and  it  didn't  come.  It  got  toward  the 
end  of  the  third  week  and  I  thought  I'd  go  crazy. 
By  that  time  I'd  lost  all  account  of  Edward's  travel- 
schedule.  But  I  knew  that  the  first  of  every  month 
he  had  to  be  in  Pocohonkit.  I  knew — because  he 
always  dreaded  it.  The  trains  ran  so  that  he  used 
to  get  into  Eldersville  at  two  in  the  morning  and 
wait  a  whole  hour  for  the  train  to  Pocohonkit.  So 
I  was  certain  that,  unless  something  happened,  Ed- 
ward would  be  in  the  Eldersville  station  from  two 
until  three  Thursday  night  of  that  third  week.  And 
what  do  you  suppose  I  did?  " 

"  Go  on,"  Cousin  Debbie  implored. 

11  You  know  how  poor  we  were  in  those  days, 
Debbie?" 

Cousin  Debbie  nodded. 

"  Why,  Debbie,  there  would  be  weeks  at  a  time 
when  mother  wouldn't  have  a  cent  in  the  house. 
We  had  garden  truck  and  the  chickens,  and  mother 
would  run  up  a  bill  until  Aunt  Mary's  allowance 
came  in.  But  as  for  money,  she  rarely  saw  any  and 
I  never  did.  I  hadn't  at  that  time  a  cent  to  my 
name.  Neither  had  mother.  I  wasn't  the  kind  that 
could  borrow;  besides  I  didn't  want  anybody  to 
know  what  I  was  going  to  do.  But  I  did  own  three 
pieces  of  jewelry — that  string  of  gold  beads  that 
I'd  always  had,  the  one  Phoebe  wears  now — a  pin 
of  jet  and  pearl  that  Aunt  Mary  gave  me,  the  one 
I  gave  to  that  Mrs.  Ventry  I  was  telling  you  about 


The  Discoveries  165 

the  other  day — and  a  lovely  little  brooch  of  carved 
ivory  that  Miss  Summers  brought  me  back  from 
Switzerland.  Well,  I  waited  until  everybody  had 
gone  to  sleep  that  night  and  then  when  the  clock 
struck  twelve  I  got  up  and  dressed,  climbed  out  my 
window,  and  walked  to  Campion  Center." 

"  Did  you  meet  anybody?  "  Debbie  asked  breath- 
lessly. 

"  Not  a  living  soul — not  so  far's  I  know.  And  I 
guess,"  Mrs.  Martin  said  with  a  grim  emphasis, 
"  if  anybody  had  seen  me  I'd  have  heard  of  it.  You 
know  North  Campion.  Well,  I  walked  in  on  the 
ticket-seller  in  Campion  Center  and  told  him  I 
wanted  a  ticket  to  Wissigissett.  I  told  him  that  I 
hadn't  any  money,  but  that  it  was  a  matter  almost 
of  life  and  death;  and  I'd  leave  the  jet  and  pearl 
brooch  as  security." 

"  Why,  Bertha  Brooks !  "  said  Cousin  Debbie  as 
if  they  were  girls  again,  "  if  you  don't  beat  the 
Dutch!" 

11  He  looked  at  me  for  about  a  minute,"  Mrs. 
Martin  went  on,  "  and  I  looked  at  him.  I  remem- 
ber him  perfectly — he  was  a  fat  man  with  a  kinder 
jolly  face.  Then  he  said,  '  All  right.'  That's  all 
there  was  to  that.  He  handed  me  the  ticket  and 
I  handed  him  the  brooch  and  pretty  soon  the  train 
came  along  and  I  took  it.  I  got  to  Wissigissett  at 
one-twenty.  I  had  to  change  there  into  a  train  to 
Braley.  It  was  only  a  five  minutes'  ride  and  I  could 
have  walked  it  easy,  but  I  had  to  make  connections 
with  the  one-forty-five  at  Eldersville.     I  told  the 


1 66  The  Discoveries 

Braley  ticket  man  just  what  I  told  the  other  one 
and  offered  him  the  carved  ivory  brooch." 

"What  did  he  say?" 

Mrs.  Martin  laughed.  M  I  can  see  that  man  yet 
— he  was  sort  of  pious-looking — with  one  of  those 
serious  sort  of  faces  with  little  near-together  eyes. 
He  said,  '  Are  you  sure  there  is  nothing  criminal 
about  this?'  I  had  to  laugh  at  that  and  I  came 
right  out  with  it.  I  said,  '  I've  quarreled  with  my 
beau  and  I  want  to  see  him  to-night.'  He  said,  (  I 
don't  want  your  pin  and  I'll  pay  for  your  ticket. 
But  that's  just  like  a  woman — raising  the  dickens 
when  a  man's  away  off  and  can't  get  to  her.  I  hope 
it's  a  lesson  to  you.'  I  couldn't  make  him  take  the 
brooch.  And,  finally  the  train  came  along,  I  said, 
1  All  right,  I'll  pay  you  back  some  day.'  I  got  to 
Braley  at  quarter-past  one.  The  ticket  man  there 
wasn't  so  nice  as  the  others." 

"What  did  he  do?"  Cousin  Debbie  demanded 
breathlessly. 

"  He  didn't  do  anything — but  he  said  I  was  an 
awful  pretty  girl  to  be  wandering  round  that  hour 
of  night  alone.  He  was  one  of  those  conceited- 
looking  men.  He  had  a  black  mustache  with  little 
curls  on  the  end  of  it  and  he  kept  twisting  it  while 
he  talked  with  me.  He  offered  me  a  five-dollar 
bill.  But  of  course  I  didn't  touch  it.  I  did  take  the 
ticket,  though,  and  I  made  him  take  the  gold  beads. 
I  got  into  Eldersville  at  exactly  half-past  two — and 
— well,  I  wish  you  could  have  seen  Edward  Martin's 
face  when  he  saw  me  coming  out  of  that  car." 


"Mother  Martin,"  Phoebe  said,  bursting  into  the  conversation,  "is 
that  true,  every  word  of  it  ?" 


The  Discoveries  167 

"  What  did  he  say?  "  Debbie  asked. 

"  It  was  a  minute  before  he  could  say  anything. 
But  after  that,  we  certainly  did  do  some  talking." 

"  What  time  did  you  get  back?  " 

"  About  four.  I  climbed  in  through  the  back 
sitting-room  window  without  a  soul  hearing  me. 
And  nobody's  ever  known  about  it  until  this  day, 
not  even  mother." 

"  How  did  you  ever  get  your  things  again?  " 

"  Edward  gave  me  the  money  to  redeem  them 
on  my  way  home.  I  was  the  whole  summer  earning 
money  to  pay  him  back.  Oh,  wasn't  he  mad  that  I 
did  it!  He  threw  one  dollar  that  I  gave  him  into 
the  river,  and  I  nearly  broke  the  engagement  again. 
I  never  heard  such  a  crazy  thing — throwing  good 
money  away!  " 

"  Mother  Martin,"  Phoebe  said,  bursting  into  the 
conversation  with  the  air  of  one  who  can  no  longer 
control  herself,  "  is  that  true,  every  word  of  it?  " 

Mrs.  Martin  laughed  and  nodded.  There  was  a 
slight  embarrassment  in  her  manner.  But  an  emo- 
tion much  stronger — a  reminiscent  delight  in  her 
own  escapade — had  fired  her  eyes  and  curved  her 
lips.  Her  cheeks  flaunted  a  pink  almost  velvety. 
Looking  at  her  closely,  you  might  have  seen  the  girl 
of  thirty  years  before.  Perhaps  Phoebe  saw  this 
girl,  for  she  stared  hard. 

"Well,  mother,"  she  said  slowly,  "  I  can't  im- 
agine you  doing  such  a  thing.  I  wouldn't  have 
thought  it  was  in  you."  She  added  after  another 
long,  strange  look:  "  I  don't  wonder  the  man  tried 


1 68  The  Discoveries 

to  flirt  with  you,  though — you  must  have  been  a 
perfect  peach." 

u  Well,"  said  Cousin  Debbie  with  an  emphasis 
almost  indignant,  "  I  should  say  she  was.  She  was 
the  handsomest  girl  in  North  Campion.  You'll  do 
very  well,  miss,  if  you're  ever  as  good-looking  as 
your  mother  was." 

But  Phoebe  did  not  answer.  She  did  not  seem 
to  hear.  She  was  still  examining  her  mother  with 
that  long,  strange,  preoccupied  scrutiny. 

The  talk  drifted  far  afield.  An  hour  went  by. 
Phoebe  tried  to  read  her  magazine,  but  a  restless- 
ness that  increased  with  every  moment  harried  her. 
Again  and  again  she  reminded  her  mother  and  her 
cousin  that  they  ought  to  be  tired.  But  the  two 
women  continued  to  dawdle  over  their  sewing.  It 
was  eleven  o'clock  before  the  last  sound  in  the  house 
died  down. 

Phoebe  did  not  go  to  bed  at  all.  Fully  dressed 
she  sat  quietly  in  her  room  until  the  clock  struck 
twelve.  Then  she  put  on  her  hat  and  rubbers,  threw 
her  raincoat  out  the  window.  Exercising  phe- 
nomenal care,  she  climbed  down  the  ladder,  pulled 
on  her  coat,  tiptoed  over  the  lawn.  Two  minutes 
later  she  was  running  down  the  street. 

An  hour  afterwards  a  tall  slender  girl,  dripping 
water  at  every  angle,  eyes  and  cheeks  aflame,  curls 
frescoed  on  her  damp  forehead  down  to  her  very 
eyebrows,  burst  into  the  railroad  station  at  Rose- 
dale. 

The  telegram  which,  after  many  false  starts,  she 


The  Discoveries  169 

finally  composed  was  brief.  Addressed  to  Mr.  To- 
land  Warburton,  Princeton  Inn,  Princeton,  New 
Jersey,  it  read: 

Send  back  last  letter  unread,  and  if  read,  disregard 
utterly.     Undying  love  and  faith, 

Phoebe. 

"  Say,  Tug,"  Ernest  said  over  the  telephone,  early 
Saturday  evening,  "  Sandy  and  I  have  fixed  it  to  have 
some  bridge  whist  and  a  rabbit  this  evening  on 
father's  account.  Now  you  never  can  tell  how  girls 
will  act.  So  if  it  gets  slow,  jump  in  and  make  things 
whiz,  won't  you?  I  don't  suppose  father  will  have 
much  use  for  those  girls  or  they  for  him.  But  I 
guess,  between  us,  you  and  I  can  keep  things  going." 

"  Sure,"  agreed  the  cheerful  Tug,  "  I  shall  open 
my  face  wide  the  moment  we  get  inside  the  door 
and  I  shan't  close  it  until  we  say  au  revoir.  I  am 
the  champion  long-distance  talker  of  the  United 
States  and  Canada  and  my  specialty  is  speeding 
things  up." 

"  Oh,  and  say,  Tug,"  Ernest  went  on,  "  Sandy 
and  I  have  got  a  new  jolly  for  those  Radcliffe  girls. 
Sandy  wanted  me  to  tell  you,  so  you  wouldn't  think 
he  was  really  slamming  Harvard." 

"  Do  your  darnedest,"  advised  the  serene  Tug. 
"  I  think  those  four  Radcliffe  maids  are  quite  able 
to  take  care  of  themselves." 

"  Oh,  and,  Tug,"  Ernest  added,  "  I  have  an  en- 
gagement late  this  evening,  after  it's  all  over.     I 


170  The  Discoveries 

don't  want  father  to  know  anything  about  it.  But 
you  suggest  leaving  me  at  my  street.    See !  " 

"  I'm  on,"  answered  the  buoyant  Tug. 

"  Mrs.  Williston,"  Ernest  was  saying  an  hour 
later  to  the  pleasant  woman — ample,  white-haired, 
and  fifty — who  arose  to  greet  them,  "  let  me  intro- 
duce my  father,  and," — this  to  a  quartette  of  beau- 
ties who  sat  wedged  on  a  couch, — "  Miss  Williston, 
Miss  Dunster,  Miss  George,  Miss  Riley,  my  father." 

The  quartette  of  beauties  bowed  politely.  Mrs. 
Williston  added  to  her  cordial  greeting:  "  Mr.  Mar- 
tin, I'm  going  to  ask  you  if  you  will  chaperon  this 
quartette  of  young  people  to-night  in  my  place. 
We've  just  heard  of  the  illness  of  a  very  old  friend. 
Mr.  Williston  has  gone  on  ahead  and  I  must  join 
him  now.  I  hope  you  will  excuse  me,  but  it  is  a  case 
where  we  can  do  nothing  else." 

Mr.  Martin  excused  her  with  the  requisite  gra- 
ciousness.  He  accompanied  her  to  her  car,  put  her 
into  it,  with  protestations,  constantly  renewed,  of 
delight  in  his  new  role.  As  he  returned  to  the  pleas- 
ant library,  he  caught  the  words,  "  Radcliffe  "  and 
11  Harvard."  But  apparently  the  fair  quartette  on 
the  couch  had  neither  stirred  nor  spoken. 

11  Mr.  Martin,"  suddenly  said  the  peachy-cheeked, 
honey-haired,  heroic-size  blondness  that  was  Eunice 
Dunster,  "  we  welcome  you  to  these  alien  halls  of 
learning.  For  one  week,  we  have  put  in  most  of 
our  time  refuting  the  knocks  of  ignorant  Prince- 
tonians  in  regard  to  Harvard  University.  We  have 
had  almost  no  assistance  from  Mr.  Warburton,  who, 


The  Discoveries  171 

although  a  Harvard  man,  is  afraid  of  losing  his 
Princeton  pull,  and  less  from  Miss  Williston,  who, 
possessing  a  Princeton  brother,  confesses  to  divided 
allegiances.  Your  son  says  that  you  are  a  Harvard 
man.  We  would  like  to  ask  you  if  in  your  day  the 
other  colleges  were  as  frantically  jealous  of  Har- 
vard as  they  are  now?  " 

Mr.  Martin  met  with  his  twinkle  the  sunny  azure 
mischief  of  Miss  Dunster's  glance.  "  It  was  even 
so  in  those  days,  Miss  Dunster,"  he  affirmed  seri- 
ously, "  black,  bitter,  biting  envy  beset  us  on  every 
side." 

"  Mr.  Martin,"  said  the  delicate,  slender  Gallic 
bruneness  that  was  Janet  George,  "  for  a  child's  size 
college,  Princeton  is  a  very  pretty  toy.  Is  it  not 
so?" 

Mr.  Martin  met  with  his  twinkle  the  liquid,  long- 
lashed  glee  of  Miss  George's  gaze.  "  I  have  no 
doubt  whatever,  Miss  George,"  he  assented  gravely, 
"  that  Princeton  will  qualify  as  soon  as  it  grows 
up." 

"  Mr.  Martin,"  said  the  willowy,  violet-eyed 
Irishness  that  was  Nora  Riley,  "  why  is  it  that  we 
permit  these  minor  mushroom  universities  to  exist? 
Is  it  not  our  duty  to  rise  in  our  might  some  time 
and  raze  them  to  the  ground?  " 

Mr.  Martin  met  with  his  twinkle  the  freckled, 
dimpled  archness  of  Nora's  gaze.  "  I  believe  this 
is  the  one  case  above  all  the  others,  Miss  Riley," 
he  pronounced  solemnly,  "  when  we  should  temper 
justice  with  mercy." 


172  The  Discoveries 

Miss  Williston  moved  away  from  Miss  Dunster. 
"  The  gentleman  qualifies.  Mr.  Martin,  will  you 
kindly  join  the  Harvard  forces  on  the  couch?  " 

Still  twinkling,  Mr.  Martin  squeezed  his  big  bulk 
into  the  place  the  two  girls  made.  He  surveyed 
them  all  with  his  amused,  indulgent  gaze. 

11  Now,"  said  Ernest  briskly,  "  I  tell  you  what 
let's  do.  There  are  just  eight  of  us.  How  about 
bridge?" 

"  Not  for  a  moment,"  said  Miss  Dunster  de- 
cisively. "  If  the  gods  have  favored  us  so  far  as 
to  send  one  of  themselves — that  is  to  say,  a  real 
Harvard  man — right  down  in  our  midst,  shall  we 
flout  them  by  indulging  in  piffling  games  and  sports? 
By  Memorial  Hall,  nay,  by  Hollis,  Holworthy,  and 
Gray's,  twice  nay,  by  the  statue  of  John  Harvard, 
thrice  nay!  Mr.  Martin,  let  our  conversation  be 
of  our  alma  mater  and  pater.  Did  you  perchance 
ever  do  any  acting  when  you  were  at  Harvard?  " 

"  Not  exactly,"  said  Mr.  Martin,  "  I  wasn't  very 
much  of  an  actor  myself.  But  I  was  always  on  com- 
mittees to  get  plays  up.  We  did  Ben  Jonson's 
*  Bartholomew  Fair,'  Goldsmith's  '  She  Stoops  to 
Conquer,'  Sheridan's  '  The  Rivals,'  and " 

11  '  The  Rivals!  '  "  Miss  Dunster  exclaimed. 
"  Did  you  really?  Why,  we're  getting  up  'The 
Rivals '  at  Radcliffe  for  the  spring  Emmanuel. 
Nora's  chairman  of  the  committee — the  martyred 
angel.  Blanche  is  playing  Bob  Acres.  Janet's 
Lydia  Languish  and  I'm  Sir  Lucius.  Oh,  I  say,  Mr. 
Martin,  do  you  remember  any  of  the  business?  " 


The  Discoveries  173 

"  I  should  say  I  did,"  answered  Mr.  Martin  with 
fervor.  "  About  three  weeks  before  our  play  came 
off,  Joe  Jefferson  showed  in  '  The  Rivals  '  in  Boston. 
I  went  six  times  just  to  take  notes  on  the  business. 
I  know  that  play  from  A  to  Z  and  from  omega  to 
alpha." 

"Shades  of  the  sacred  Harvard  quadrangle!" 
exclaimed  Nora  Riley,  "  we've  struck  oil — a  gusher! 
Girls,  this  is  where  we  take  Mr.  Martin  by  the  fore- 
lock. Help  me  clean  this  table  off,  Janet.  Eunice, 
you  go  upstairs  and  get  the  books.  Blanche,  rustle 
paper  and  pencils.  You  wouldn't  mind  going 
through  the  play  with  us,  would  you,  Mr.  Martin? 
It  will  only  take  a  little  while." 

"  I  should  enjoy  it  enormously,"  said  Mr.  Martin. 

"  Say,  Blanche,  why  don't  you  put  that  off  until 
some  other  time?  "  said  Sandy,  "  Mr.  Martin  hasn't 
a  very  long  time  to  stay  here,  and  I'm  sure  to-night 
he'd " 

"  Because,"  interrupted  Blanche,  "  we  want  to  do 
it  now.  And  don't  you  suppose  Mr.  Martin  prefers 
the  company  of  people  who  bear  ever  the  hallmark 
of  Harvard,  who  carry  always  the  aura  of  Cam- 
bridge, to  the  riffraff  of  other  colleges?  Hurry  up, 
mes  en f ants!  " 

Five  minutes  later  Mr.  Martin  found  himself 
seated  before  the  bared  center-table,  a  girl  suspended 
at  either  shoulder  and  two  leaning  so  far  across 
the  table  that  their  heads  almost  bumped  his  and 
all  hanging  on  his  words. 

Tug  and  Sandy  merged  themselves  with  a  game 


174  The  Discoveries 

of  chess.  Ernest  fell  on  the  pile  of  magazines  that 
had  been  shoveled  from  the  table. 

"  Check!  "  said  Tug  at  the  end  of  an  hour. 

"  Say,  father,"  hinted  Ernest  after  an  aimless 
interval  of  three-cornered,  masculine  talk,  "  aren't 
you  most  finished  with  that  stuff?  I'm  sure  the  girls 
are  ready  to  play  now." 

"  Finished!  "  answered  Blanche  Williston,  "  we've 
hardly  begun.  Now  I  tell  you  what  you  three  do. 
You  run  upstairs  and  play  billiards  and  don't  bother 
us  any  longer.  What  was  that  point  about  the  posi- 
tions at  the  beginning  of  the  duel-scene,  Mr.  Mar- 
tin?   I  didn't  entirely  get  that." 

Three-quarters  of  an  hour  later  Ernest  returned 
to  the  library.  "  Sandy  says,"  he  announced  sulkily, 
"  that  he's  hungry  and  would  like  the  rabbit  now." 

"  Mr.  Martin,"  said  Janet  George,  "  will  you 
kindly  request  that  obnoxious  Princeton  person  not 
to  interrupt  us  again?  " 

"  Ernest,"  ordered  his  father  without  looking  up, 
"  go  into  a  corner  and  stand  with  your  face  to  the 
wall." 

Half  an  hour  later  Ernest  again  entered.  "  Sandy 
says  that  the  table  is  set,"  he  announced  stiffly,  "  and 
the  cheese  all  cut  up,  and " 

"  Mr.  Martin,"  interrupted  Eunice  Dunster,  "  I 
see  now  why  you  didn't  send  him  to  Harvard — he 
wasn't  good  enough." 

11  Ernest,"  implored  his  father,  "  don't  stand 
there  any  longer,  bringing  my  gray  hairs  with  sor- 
row to  the  grave." 


The  Discoveries  175 

Fifteen  minutes  later  Ernest  reappeared  in  the 
doorway.  "  Sandy  says/'  he  emitted  in  a  single 
breath,  "  that  the  rabbit's  all  cooked  and  if  you 
don't  come  now,  you  can  take  it  cold."  Before  any- 
body could  administer  rebuke  he  vanished. 

The  group  at  the  table  arose,  laughing  and 
talking,  filed  into  the  dining-room.  The  girls, 
bunching  themselves  about  Mr.  Martin,  absently  ac- 
cepted the  plates  that  were  handed  them. 

"  Well,  if  you  could  have  seen  what  happened 
the  night  we  gave  it  in  Seriph  Four  Corners,"  Mr. 
Martin  was  concluding,  "  you'd  have " 

"  Seriph  Four  Corners !  "  Eunice  Dunster  ex- 
claimed. "  Why,  my  mother  came  from  Seriph. 
I  wonder  if  you  knew  her.  Her  name  was  Minnie 
Pratt.  My  goodness  gracious,  are  you  Edward 
Martin?" 

"  That's  who  I  am,"  Mr.  Martin  confessed.  "  Of 
course  I  knew  your  mother.  She  was  one  of  the 
nicest  girls  I  ever  met — and  one  of  the  prettiest." 

Eunice  unfastened  the  chain  that  hung  about  her 
neck,  opened  the  pendant  locket,  handed  it  to  Mr. 
Martin. 

"  Yes,  that's  Minnie,"  said  Mr.  Martin,  smiling 
a  little.    "  You  don't  look  like  her,  do  you?  " 

"  No,"  said  Eunice  regretfully,  "  everybody  says 
I'm  a  Dunster.  I  can't  believe  you're  Edward  Mar- 
tin. My  mother's  told  us  children  a  thousand  times 
how  you  walked  right  up  to  a  man  with  a  gun,  took 
it  away  from  him,  and  thrashed  him  because  he'd 
been  beating  his  mother.     Why,  girls,  when  Mr. 


176  The  Discoveries 

Martin    was    at    Harvard,    he    was Well, 

mother's  told  me  many  a  time  how  you  helped  paint 
John  Harvard  red  and  how  you  put  the  alarm- 
clocks  in  Professor  Moy's  recitation-room.  Girls, 
they  went  off  at  five-minute  intervals  during  the 
entire  lecture.  Mother  said  you  had  the  greatest 
collection  of  funny  signs — she  said  you  stole  one 
out  of  a  police-station.  Mother  always  insists  that 
you  hung  the  skeleton  onto  the  flagpole  that  time. 
Did  you?" 

Mr.  Martin  shook  his  head  decisively.  "  Oh, 
no!  "  he  said. 

"  Mother  says  you  always  say  '  no/  "  continued 
Eunice.  "  She  says  you  were  all  sworn  to  deny  it 
to  the  end  of  your  days."  She  stopped  and  stared 
at  Mr.  Martin,  an  imp  of  mischief  dancing  in  each 
blue  eye.    H  I  bet  you  did  it,"  she  wheedled. 

Except  for  his  twinkle,  Mr.  Martin  sustained  her 
accusing  gaze  equably.  "  I  bet  I  didn't,"  he  as- 
severated. 

The  imps  vanished  from  Eunice's  eyes.  Her  gaze 
became  a  little  dreamy.  "  Just  think  of  your  being 
Edward  Martin,"  she  murmured  half  to  herself. 
11  Why,  I've  heard  of  you  all  my  life.  You've  been 
a  sort  of  legendary  hero  to  us  children.  I  don't 
know  what  mother  will  say  when  I  write  her  that 
I've  met  you.  What  I  can't  get  over,  though,  is 
your  seeming  so  young — so  much  younger  than 
mother." 

"  What  I  can't  get  over,"  said  Mr.  Martin,  u  is 
Minnie's  having  a  great  girl  like  you." 


The  Discoveries  177 

"  Ernest  Martin,"  said  Eunice,  "  it  doesn't  seem 
possible  that  Edward  Martin  can  be  your  father. 
He  seems  more  like  your  brother." 

Ernest  looked  up,  startled. 

Mr.  Martin  was  a  heavy  man,  but  his  bulk  all 
ran  to  shape.  His  hair  was  perfectly  white,  but  it 
was  thick  and  the  ends  broke  into  a  crisp  ripple. 
The  effect,  moreover,  of  the  lineless  floridity  of  his 
face,  the  quizzical  geniality  of  his  clear  hazel  eyes 
was  to  make  this  seem  a  premature  silvering. 
Somehow  he  seemed  to  gain  rather  than  lose  in 
youthfulness  by  contrast  with  the  cluster  of  beautiful 
girl- faces.  Ernest  realized,  as  he  never  could  be- 
fore, what  Phoebe  meant  when  she  said  that  he 
looked  like  a  leading-man  in  a  play. 

And  then — how  did  it  come  up  ? — suddenly  he  saw 
his  father  from  an  angle  of  mental  vision  so  dif- 
ferent from  the  physical  one  that  it  was  as  if  he 
were  seeing  him  for  the  first  time.  He  saw  him 
divorced  utterly  from  his  aspect  of  husband  and 
parent.  He  saw  him  as  a  human  being  among  hu- 
man beings.  He  saw  him  as  a  man  among  men.  He 
saw  him  as  a  man  among  women.  Why,  his  part 
in  the  game  of  life  had  been  as  red-blooded  as 
Ernest's  own.  He  had  taken  all  a  male's  chances, 
both  of  the  body  and  of  the  soul.  He  had  hit  his 
man.  He  had  kissed  his  maid.  His  father!  His 
father!  The  sensation  bothered  Ernest.  It  brought 
a  strange  perplexity,  an  irritation.  He  tried  to 
throw  it  off.  He  tried  mentally  to  push  his  father 
back  into  his  place — to  settle  him  in  that  station  of 


178  The  Discoveries 

the  middle  years,  where  paternally  white-haired,  not 
youthfully  so,  he  should  hover  forever  on  the  brink 
of  old  age. 

Ernest  stared  at  his  father. 

The  imps  of  mischief  began  to  dance  again  in 
Miss  Dunster's  eyes. 

11  My  mother  has  told  me  many  times,  Mr.  Mar- 
tin," she  said  with  the  serene  effrontery  of  comely 
youth,  "  that  all  the  Seriph  girls  were  perfectly 
crazy  about  you." 

"  They  managed  to  conceal  it  from  me,"  retorted 
Mr.  Martin. 

"  Girls!  M  Eunice  addressed  the  allied  forces  of 
her  own  sex,  but  she  did  not  take  the  sparkle  of  her 
gaze  from  Mr.  Martin's  face.  "  We  must  beware 
of  this  man.  He  was  a  perfectly  dreadful  flirt — 
according  to  tradition — although  mother  does  say 
he  was  a  dear" 

"  I  can  listen  to  this  conversation,"  Mr.  Martin 
maintained,  unruffled,  "  all  the  rest  of  the  evening." 

"  All  right."  Eunice  continued  her  remarks  with 
a  demure  relentlessness.  "  Mother  said  that  you 
had  the  prettiest  curly  hair  and  the  longest  eye- 
lashes that  she  ever  saw.  She  says  it  was  a  terrible 
pity  that  they  were  wasted  on  a  man." 

Mr.  Martin  did  not  bat  a  single  one  of  the  eye- 
lashes under  discussion.  He  continued  to  stare  his 
tormentor  straight  in  the  face. 

"  Seems  to  me,  girls,"  concluded  Eunice,  verbally 
signaling  for  reinforcements,  "  that  the  eyelashes 
are  still  rather  long." 


The  Discoveries  179 

The  heavy  artillery  galloped  onto  the  field. 

"  This  way  for  the  eyelashes !  "  directed  Janet 
George. 

The  three  girls  moved  closer  and  carefully  sur- 
veyed their  victim. 

"  Kindly  remove  your  glasses,"  ordered  Blanche 
Williston. 

Mr.  Martin  obeyed  promptly. 

"  Now  shut  your  eyes,"  coaxed  Nora  Riley. 

Mr.  Martin  burst  out  laughing.  He  jumped  up 
and  walked  to  the  other  side  of  the  room.  "  My 
hands  are  up !  "  he  admitted. 

Ernest  continued  to  stare. 

"Well,  Mr.  Martin,"  Eunice  went  on,  "you 
must  promise  us  three  things  before  you  leave.  One 
is  that  just  as  soon  as  you  go  home  you  and  Mrs. 
Martin  will  look  mother  up.  She's  always  won- 
dered what  became  of  you.  She  said  that  you  mar- 
ried a  girl  that  looked  like  an  angel." 

"  All  right,"  said  Mr.  Martin.  "  What's  number 
two?" 

11  That  you'll  come  to  see  us  do  '  The  Rivals.'  " 

"  Of  course  I  will,"  agreed  Mr.  Martin.  "  Num- 
ber three?" 

"  That  you'll  come  to  the  Open  Idler  this  spring 
and  dance  with  every  girl  we  introduce  you  to. 
Mother  says  that  you  were  a  perfectly  heavenly 
dancer.    Will  you?  " 

"  All  right,"  said  Mr.  Martin. 

And  still  Ernest  stared — stared  at  the  ghost  of 
his  father's  youth. 


180  The  Discoveries 

An  hour  later,  clad  in  overalls,  a  pot  of  green 
paint,  plopping  and  dripping  from  his  belt,  a  new 
paint-brush  held  between  his  teeth,  Ernest  was  climb- 
ing perilously  up  the  props  of  the  water  tower.  Be- 
low in  the  shrubbery  skulked  half  a  dozen  sopho- 
mores, keeping  guard.  Two  perils  added  their 
agreeable  excitement  to  Ernest's  undertaking:  first 
and  least  that  he  might  break  his  neck,  second  that 
he  would  be  suspended  instantly  if  discovered. 
Slowly,  carefully,  he  pulled  himself  up.  His  hand 
did  not  falter,  however,  nor  his  resolution  shake. 
Arrived  at  the  tip-top,  he  painted  his  class-numerals 
on  the  tower  with  the  boldest  sweep  of  green  that 
his  peril  would  permit.  And  having  finished,  he 
climbed  down,  doffed  his  disguise,  strolled  back  to 
tranquil  sleep. 

After  Mr.  Martin  left  Ernest,  he  went  directly 
to  the  Inn.  Once  in  his  room,  however,  a  strange 
restlessness  fell  upon  him.  He  walked  up  and  down, 
stopping  now  and  then  to  fall  into  a  brown  study. 
Coming  abruptly  out  of  the  last  of  these  reveries, 
he  moved  over  to  the  window.  For  a  long  time  he 
stood  there  looking  out  on  a  patch  of  starlit  lawn. 
Finally  he  sat  down  at  the  desk  and  began  to  write. 

Princeton  Inn, 

Princeton,  N.  J. 

_,  Saturday,  late. 

My  dear  Bertha: 

I  think  I'll  return  to  New  York  to-morrow.     I'll  have 

to  be  at  the  Waldorf  for  a  day  or  two — then  I'll  come 


The  Discoveries  181 

home.  I've  had  all  I  want  of  college  life  for  a  while.  It 
all  sounds  so  foolish  and  shallow  here.  I  don't  believe  we 
were  like  that  at  Harvard  in  my  day.  By  George,  I  know 
we  weren't.  Why,  at  Ernest's  age,  I  was  painting  John 
Harvard  red  and  stealing  signs  out  of  police-stations.  Do 
you  remember  the  time  we  set  off  the  eight  alarm-clocks 
during  Professor  Moy's  lecture?  Do  you  remember  the 
time  we  precipitated  the  race-riot  in  Memorial?  Why, 
Ernest  lives  the  correct,  bloodless  life  of  the  store-window 
mannikin.     Not  that  I  want  him  to  be  the  offensive  type 

of  college  man.    But Well,  I'm  glad  I'm  not  Ernest. 

Love  to  you  and  Phoebe! 

Your  affectionate  husband, 

Edward  Martin. 

P.S. — Oh,  by  the  way,  I  met  Minnie  Pratt's  daughter 
at  the  Willistons'  to-night.  I  promised  we'd  look  them  up 
when  I  got  back.     I'd  really  like  to  do  that. 

2  P.S. — I  have  always  forgotten  to  ask  Ernest  if  he 
bought  those  flannels — but  I  didn't  notice  that  he  shivered 
any. 

Dear  Edward: 

I  understand  in  a  way  how  you  feel  about  Ernie's  col- 
lege life.  I  think  there's  nobody  so  old  as  the  young  people 
nowadays.  Just  the  same  I'm  glad  Ernie  is  not  cutting 
up.  It's  very  rough  and  ungentlemanly,  besides  being  dan- 
gerous. If  Ernest  should  get  arrested,  I  don't  know  what 
I'd  do.  Lois  Lynch  was  in  last  night  and  she  said  that 
her  brother,  who's  a  Freshman  at  Princeton,  wrote  home 
that  some  of  the  sophomores  painted  the  class  numbers  on 
the  water-tower  the  other  night.     They'd  been  expelled  if 


1 82  The  Discoveries 

they'd  been  found  out.     I  should  feel  awfully  if  Ernie  got 
mixed   up  with  anything  like  that. 

I  guess  I'll  have  to  believe  in  mental  telegraphy  after 
this.  For  while  you  were  talking  with  Minnie  Pratt's 
daughter,  I  was  telling  Debbie  how  I  went  over  to  Elders- 
ville  in  the  middle  of  the  night  to  talk  half  an  hour  with 
you  after  a  quarrel.  Edward,  I've  been  thinking  over 
Phoebe  and  Tug,  and  they  don't  care  for  each  other  the 
way  we  did.  Not  that  I'd  like  to  have  Phoebe  do  anything 
like  that  exactly.  Why,  Edward,  they  don't  even  realize 
what  fun  it  is  quarreling. 

We  are  well,  except  Phoebe.  She  has  a  dreadful  cold 
and  I  can't  think  how  she  got  it. 

Your  loving  wife, 

Bertha. 

P.S. — You  never  said  what  Minnie  Pratt's  married  name 
was,  but  I'd  love  to  go  to  call  on  her. 

Dear  Ern  : 

I  have  a  perfectly  awful  cold  from  taking  a  long  walk 
in  the  rain,  so  I  can't  write  much  this  time.  I'm  glad 
father  had  such  a  good  time  in  Princeton  but  I  wish  he'd 
stayed  longer.  I'm  going  to  take  back  one  thing  I  said 
about  father  and  mother.  I  guess  they've  had  experiences 
just  as  interesting  as  ours — and  maybe  more  so.  Anyway, 
Ern  Martin,  if  you  don't  realize  that  Mother  Martin  must 
have  been  a  perfect  wonder,  I  now  announce  to  you  that 
that's  what  she  was. 

Your  aff.  sister, 

Phoebe. 


The  Discoveries  183 

Dear  Phoebe: 

Yes,  I'm  sorry  that  father  went  home  so  soon,  but  he 
said  he  had  a  good  time  and  I  think  he  did.  I  feel  just  the 
same  way  about  father  that  you  do  about  mother — he's 
no  back  number  and  don't  you  forget  it. 

Your  loving  brother, 

Ern. 


CHAPTER  VII 
THE  HOUSE  BOOK 

THE  day  after  Christmas. 
The  most  wonderful  thing  that  ever  hap- 
pened to  me,  since  Mrs.  Warburton  asked  me  to  go 
abroad,  happened  yesterday.  It  was  a  Christmas 
gift.  It  came  in  my  Christmas  stocking.  It  was  a 
house.  I  don't  mean  that  a  house  came  in  the  stock- 
ing. But  a  note  from  Tug's  father  did.  And  the 
note  said  that  his  Christmas  gift  to  Tug  and  me  was 
a  house  for  us  to  live  in  after  we  were  married. 
Think  of  it,  a  house.  I'm  going  to  write  it  again. 
A  house!  Once  more  and  maybe  I  can  believe  it. 
A  HOUSE !  The  house  isn't  built  yet,  but  it's  going 
to  be  built  right  here  in  Maywood  on  any  one  of  a 
dozen  lots  that  Mr.  Warburton  owns.  Mr.  War- 
burton  said  it  could  be  any  kind  of  a  house  Tug  and 
I  wanted.  We  could  buy  a  house  already  built  or 
build  one  to  suit  ourselves — anything,  provided  we 
did  not  spend  more  than  five  thousand  dollars. 
Well,  of  course,  I  went  just  about  crazy  with  delight, 
and  all  day  long  my  head  was  in  a  perfect  whirl. 
After  all  the  Christmas  excitement  was  over,  Tug 
and  I  had  a  long  talk. 

Of  course  I  knew  at  once  that  this  problem  was 
entirely  up  to  me.     Tug  wouldn't  know  anything 

184 


The  House  Book  185 

about  it;  even  if  he  ever  thought  of  it.  I  decided 
immediately  that  I  wanted  to  build.  There  are  no 
houses  in  Maywood  that  appeal  to  me  especially. 
In  fact  the  only  vacant  one  I  can  think  of  is  the  old 
ramshackle  Durland  place  that's  had  a  For  Sale 
sign  in  the  orchard  ever  since  I  can  remember.  And 
I  wouldn't  live  there  for  forty  red  apples.  When  it 
comes  to  architecture,  I  don't  exactly  know  yet  what 
I  do  want,  but  I  know  perfectly  well  what  I  don't 
want.  I  distinctly  don't  want  a  house  like  this.  Of 
course  I've  always  lived  in  it  and  I'm  fond  of  it 
after  a  fashion.  It  is  big  and  square  and  straight 
and  tiresome — geometric  almost — the  kind  of  house 
a  child  draws  on  a  slate.  But  I  want  something 
different.  I  don't  know  exactly  how  to  put  it. 
Fussy  isn't  the  word.  I  want  it  sort  of  cut-up  and 
unexpected  with  all  kinds  of  little  butt-out  and  all 
kinds  of  little  butt-in  places  with  fancy  things  like 
oriel  windows,  a  chimney  outside,  a  pergola,  and 
porches  tucked  just  everywhere — more  on  the  order 
of  the  Warburton  place.  In  fact,  I  want  the  key- 
note of  my  house  to  be  up-to-dateness.  Our  house 
is  far  from  up-to-date — that  is  as  far  as  the  house 
itself  is  concerned.  The  furnishings  are  absolutely 
the  last  cry.  And  I  flatter  myself  that  I  am  re- 
sponsible for  that.  Until  a  few  years  ago  we  had 
no  furniture  at  all  but  what  mother  inherited  from 
Aunt  Mary.  Everything  was  hopelessly  behind  the 
times.  ,There  wasn't  a  smart  effect  anywhere. 
Well,  after  I  grew  up,  I  saw  there  ought  to  be  a 
change  if  we  were  to  have  any  social  position  what- 


1 86  The  House  Book 

ever.  I  almost  had  to  get  down  on  my  bended 
knees;  but  I  finally  persuaded  father  and  mother  to 
do  the  place  over  in  red  and  green  cartridge,  mission 
furniture,  Russian  brass,  and  some  modern  china. 
Then  I  brought  a  lot  of  bric-a-brac  from  abroad  that 
gave  nifty  little  touches  here  and  there.  There  isn't 
a  thing  in  it  now  that  I  would  change.  I  shall  dupli- 
cate many  of  the  effects  in  my  own  home. 

That  matter  settled,  Tug  and  I  spent  the  whole 
afternoon  and  evening  drawing  up  plans  for  the 
house.  It  was  twelve  o'clock  before  we  finished  and 
then  mother  had  to  send  Tug  home.  Tug  is  going  to 
show  them  to  Jake  Pebworth,  an  architect  friend  of 
his,  and  get  an  estimate  on  them.  I  guess  Mr.  Peb- 
worth will  be  surprised  to  see  what  a  business-like 
job  two  amateurs  have  turned  out.  After  all,  you 
can  tackle  anything  in  this  life  if  you  only  use  com- 
mon sense — now  this  wasn't  so  very  different  from 
a  dress  pattern.  Tug  and  I  decided  that  we  could 
not  possibly  get  along  with  less  than  twelve  rooms, 
a  downstairs  living-room,  library,  dining-room, 
kitchen,  an  upstairs  living-room,  four  chambers,  a 
garret,  and  two  maids'  rooms.  We  shall  have  to 
have  at  least  three  bathrooms — one  for  our  guests, 
one  for  the  maids,  and  one  for  ourselves.  I  really 
think  we  ought  to  have  four — but  I  am  willing  to 
economize  in  this  one  thing. 

In  talking  it  over,  Tug  and  I  made  a  solemn 
oath  that  we  would  each  do  our  best  to  keep  the 
other  from  growing  into  a  typical  married  person. 
That  is  the  only  "  out  "  about  marriage — the  change 


The  House  Book  187 

it  makes  in  you.  It's  just  as  if  you  caught  a  stupid 
microbe  of  some  sort;  for  all  married  people  start 
in  being  fearful  bores  the  moment  the  ceremony 
is  over.  And  the  dreadful  thing  about  it  is 
that  they're  so  unconscious  of  the  change — they 
seem  quite  happy  and  contented,  even  superior,  as 
if  they  had  discovered  a  kind  of  happiness  that 
nobody  else  ever  thought  of.  They  act  as  if  they'd 
invented  it.  Well,  Tug  and  I  are  not  going  to  be 
like  that.  If  I  thought  I  was  ever  going  to  grow 
into  the  kind  of  woman  Lila  Ellis  is,  I  don't  know 
what  I'd  do.  Lila  used  to  be  a  perfect  pippin  and 
about  the  smartest  girl  in  Maywood.  How  I  used 
to  look  up  to  her  when  I  was  in  High.  Why,  if  Lila 
Ellis  just  spoke  to  me,  I  thought  I  was  made.  Well, 
she  married  Will  Ellis  and  she's  had  four  children 
in  seven  years.  She's  grown  fat.  Her  hair  is  gray 
at  one  side — and  she  doesn't  even  try  to  conceal  it. 
She  does  nothing  all  day  long  but  push  a  baby-car- 
riage, and  as  for  her  clothes — the  least  said  about 
them  the  better.  Now  Irene  Hunt  is  the  greatest 
possible  contrast  to  Lila.  She's  been  married  just 
as  long,  but  she's  kept  her  figure,  and  my  goodness 
the  clothes  that  girl  has !  To  be  sure  she's  had  no 
children.  Children  seem  to  interfere  with  so  much 
somehow. 

No,  Tug  and  I  are  going  to  make  it  a  point  to 
keep  right  on  with  everything,  dancing  particularly. 
I'm  going  to  try  to  make  my  house  a  sort  of  rendez- 
vous for  the  young  people.  And  every  night  that 
we  are  alone,  we're  going  to  read  aloud  to  each 


1 88  The  House  Book 

other,  so  that  we  won't  rust.  Most  people  lose  all 
interest  in  everything  that's  going  on  in  the  world 
the  moment  they  get  married.  They  seem  to  think 
of  nothing  but  their  children.  Now  I  want  my  chil- 
dren to  think  of  me  the  way  I  think  of  my  mother 
and  father.  My  mother  isn't  what  you  call  a  highly 
educated  woman — that  is,  she  isn't  a  college  grad- 
uate. But  she's  kept  her  eyes  and  ears  open  all 
right !  She  doesn't  talk  so  much,  but  I  notice  when 
she  does  open  her  mouth,  people  listen.  As  for  my 
father,  well,  my  father  is  a  perfect  mine  of  informa- 
tion. He  is  up  on  every  question  of  the  day.  Tug 
says  he  has  never  met  a  better  informed  man.  Ern 
Martin  will  never  be  the  man  father  is;  not  if  he 
lives  to  be  ninety. 

Ever  since  I  read  Mr.  Warburton's  note,  my  head 
has  been  teeming  with  ideas  for  architecture  and 
interior  decoration.  What  a  help  my  trip  abroad 
will  be!  Even  my  visit  in  New  York  will  furnish 
me  with  many  practical  ideas.  I  remember  some 
of  the  up-to-date  schemes  in  Mrs.  Raeburn's  house, 
like,  for  instance,  having  two  ice-chests,  one  for  the 
desserts  only,  a  linen-closet  with  slatted  shelves  so 
the  clothes  can  air  all  the  time,  lights  in  the  closets, 
etc.  Last  night  aftertl  got  to  bed,  I  made  up  my 
mind  that  I  would  keep  a  sort  of  diary  of  the  house 
— a  house  book,  so  to  speak.  This  morning  I  went 
down  to  the  Center  and  bought  this  leather-covered 
blankbook  (eighty-five  cents  was  all  they  stung  me 
for  it) ,  and  I'm  going  to  write  in  it  every  plan  and 
idea  and  thought  that  I  have  in  regard  to  the  house. 


The  House  Book  189 

I'm  not  going  to  read  from  day  to  day  what  I  have 
written,  so  that  I  can  go  at  the  problem  fresh  every 
morning,  not  biassed  by  what's  happened  before. 
And  when  the  house  is  finished  and  the  book  is  done, 
I'm  going  to  tie  it  with  yellow  ribbon  and  seal  it 
with  great  scarlet  seals,  and  the  day  that  Tug  and 
I  have  been  married  twenty-five  years,  I'm  going  to 
get  it  out  and  read  it  to  him.  We  can  thus  live  all 
over  again  what  will  probably  prove  to  be  the  hap- 
piest period  of  our  life.  It  almost  reconciles  me  to 
growing  old. 

This  is  all  for  to-day. 

January  5. 

Tug  saw  Jake  Pebworth  to-day  about  the  plans 
we  drew  up  Christmas  night,  and  he  said  that,  after 
he  had  put  in  stairways  and  closets  and  had  allowed 
for  plumbing  and  a  furnace,  the  house  would  proba- 
bly not  cost  us  more  than  fifteen  thousand  dollars. 
Fifteen  thousand!  Goodness!  I  hadn't  any  idea 
that  it  took  so  much  money  to  build.  I'm  afraid 
we'll  have  to  get  along  with  two  bathrooms.  I  sup- 
pose, on  a  pinch,  we  could  do  without  that  upstairs 
living-room,  seeing  we  have  what  you  might  call 
two  living-rooms  downstairs.  Mr.  Pebworth  didn't 
seem  to  think  much  of  the  plans  and  suggested  that 
we  wait  and  look  about  before  we  did  anything  more 
about  it.  At  first  it  quite  discouraged  me.  But  now 
I'm  very  glad  those  plans  proved  lemons;  for  I  have 
changed  my  mind  completely.  The  other  day  when 
I  was  in  Boston  I  subscribed  to  three  illustrated 


190  The  House  Book 

magazines — "  The  Architectural  Record, "  "  The  In- 
terior," and  "  The  Builder,"  and  I  have  been  get- 
ting out  bound  copies  of  past  numbers  from  the 
library.  I  didn't  know  that  there  were  so  many 
ways  of  building  houses.  It  seemed  to  me  that  my 
plans  changed  every  time  I  turned  a  page;  for  each 
picture  was  lovelier  than  the  last.  Finally,  how- 
ever, I  boiled  my  ideas  down  to  three.  Number  one 
was  to  put  up  an  exact  duplicate  of  Anne  Hatha- 
way's  cottage.  I  thought  it  was  perfectly  darling 
when  I  was  there,  but  it  did  not  occur  to  me  how 
lovely  it  would  be  to  live  in  until  I  saw  some 
beautiful  pictures  of  it.  Number  two  was  to  build  an 
Italian  villa — like  the  one  that  Mr.  Waring  had  in 
Fiesole.  It  was  a  great,  roomy,  simple  place  with 
just  the  most  subtle  and  simple  ideas  in  decoration 
inside  and  a  formal  garden  outside.  Number  three 
(and  on  the  whole  this  fascinated  me  more  than 
any)  was  to  have  a  Spanish  hacienda — everything 
on  one  floor  and  all  built  around  a  square  interior 
court  with  a  flower-garden  and  a  fountain  in  the 
center.  I  was  just  full  of  this  when  Tug  came  to- 
night. Tug  said  (the  way  he  always  does,  the  angel 
love)  not  to  consider  him,  but  have  exactly  what  I 
want.  But  he  pointed  out  that  a  stone  floor,  like 
Anne  Hathaway's  cottage,  would  be  cold  as  ice  in 
winter.  He  said  that  when  he  was  in  Shottery,  the 
caretaker  told  him  that  winters  she  nearly  died  of 
chilblains.  Tug  said,  moreover,  that  he'd  feel  very 
anachronistic  mixing  a  Bronx  cocktail  in  an  Eliza- 
bethan cottage.     He  said,  "  Think  of  hanging  up 


The  House  Book  191 

all  my  college  flags  in  an  Italian  villa  or  inviting 
the  boys  to  play  billiards  in  a  Spanish  hacienda." 
Moreover,  Tug  pointed  out  to  me  that  the  Italian, 
villa  and  the  Spanish  hacienda  were  invented  spe- 
cially for  a  semi-tropical  climate.  And  when  you 
come  to  think  of  it,  an  interior  court  with  a  foun- 
tain in  it  would  look  sort  of  lonesome  all  covered 
with  snow.  Well,  I've  sort  of  given  up  the  idea; 
but  I'm  really  dreadfully  disappointed,  for  I  think 
it  would  be  a  very  original  stunt.  There  are  terrible 
obstacles  in  this  life  to  anybody  who  tries  to  stray 
from  the  beaten  path — especially  in  any  artistic  line. 

January  8. 

Mother  and  I  had  a  long  talk  to-day.  I  told  her 
how  disappointed  I  was  that  I  couldn't  have  an  Ital- 
ian villa  or  a  Spanish  hacienda.  She  said  that  she 
knew  exactly  how  I  felt  because  when  she  was  mar- 
ried everybody  was  building  what  she  called 
"Queen  Annie"  houses.  (Isn't  it  darling  of 
mother,  she  always  pronounces  Anne  as  if  it  were 
Annie.  It  is  so  quaint  to  hear  her  referring  to 
Queen  Annie.  She  says  her  mother  always  said 
Queen  Annie  and  she  never  can  break  herself  of  it.) 
Mother  said  that  she  wanted  a  house  that  was  just 
strung  with  bay  windows.  Goodness  knows,  I 
don't  want  a  bay  window.  She  said  that  the  only 
reason  that  she  and  father  ever  got  this  great  barn 
of  a  place  was  because  it  was  going  for  almost  noth- 
ing. She  says  she  fell  in  love  at  once  with  the  big 
room  on  the  third  floor  which  was  called  the  Play- 


192  The  House  Book 

room  when  we  were  children.  She  said  that  it 
proved  a  very  wise  choice ;  for  all  the  children  in  the 
neighborhood  always  came  here  to  play.  Some- 
times there'd  be  a  dozen  on  rainy  days.  "  Perhaps 
I  didn't  get  the  house  I  wanted,"  mother  said,  "  but 
at  least  I  always  knew  where  my  children  were." 
Mother  said,  "  Why  don't  you  look  up  every  house 
that's  '  for  sale  '  or  *  to  let '  in  town?  You'll  get 
more  ideas  from  them  than  from  all  the  books  and 
magazines  in  the  library."  That  struck  me  as  a 
very  valuable  suggestion,  and  in  the  afternoon  Tug 
and  I  started  out.  The  first  person  we  met  was 
Lila  Ellis  in  an  old  mangy  fur-coat,  wheeling  that 
eternal  baby-carriage.  She  stopped  and  spoke  to  us. 
She  said  that  she  had  heard  that  we  were  going  to 
build  and  if  we  ever  wanted  to  talk  with  some- 
body who  had  learned  much  practical  wisdom 
through  bitter  experience  to  come  to  her.  Of  course 
I  was  just  as  nice  as  I  could  be,  but  I  should  never 
think  of  going.  I  don't  think  Lila  could  tell  me 
much,  that  is,  judging  by  the  way  she  dresses.  To 
think  that  the  day  would  ever  come  when  I  should 
feel  so  superior  to  Lila  Ellis.  Why,  before  her 
father  married  the  second  time  and  she  was  mistress 
of  the  great  Doran  house,  she  had  everything  that 
money  could  buy.  It  seemed  as  if  there  was  a  dance 
there  every  night. 

We  had  hardly  turned  the  corner  when  we  ran 
into  Callie  Hunt.  She  stopped  us,  too.  "  Why  don't 
you  come  over  to  my  place?"  she  said.  "  You 
know  you've  never  called  on  me  yet."    So  we  went. 


The  House  Book  193 

Well,  never  in  my  born  days  have  I  seen  anything 
so  well  kept!  In  the  first  place  the  house  itself  is 
all  cut  up  just  the  way  I  like  a  house  to  be,  every- 
thing opening  into  everything  else,  funny  little  un- 
expected seats  and  settles,  nooks  and  corners,  turns 
and  twists.  As  for  decoration — well,  the  artistic 
touch  was  everywhere.  Then  of  course,  as  it  is  per- 
fectly new,  the  floors,  paper,  paint,  plaster  are  im- 
maculate and  what  with  all  her  new  shiny  furniture 
and  her  bright  new  rugs — well,  it  was  Spotless  Town 
all  right.  I  never  saw  a  house  so,  what  you  might 
call,  hygienically  clean.  I  didn't  see  a  speck  of  dust 
anywhere.  You  see,  Callie  keeps  everything  behind 
glass.  Her  dining-room  was  just  one  gorgeous  glit- 
ter of  cut-glass,  but  every  speck  of  it  was  in  cabinets. 
The  bric-a-brac  in  her  living-room  and  drawing-room 
is  kept  in  cabinets;  her  books  are  kept  in  cases  with 
doors  to  them;  there  are  glass  tops  to  her  tables, 
chiffoniers,  and  dressers.  I  do  not  think  you  could 
have  put  a  pin  down  anywhere  on  her  wall  where 
there  wasn't  a  picture,  and  Callie  told  me  that  she 
dusts  behind  them  every  day  of  her  life.  Well,  the 
house  showed  the  care.  There  wasn't  a  scratch  or 
a  dent  or  a  spot  or  a  stain  or  a  speck  on  anything. 
Callie  said  that  she  was  the  oldest  girl  in  a  family 
of  nine  and  she  doesn't  remember  once  to  have  seen 
in  her  home  a  room  that  she  called  tidy.  She  made 
up  her  mind  if  she  ever  got  married  she  would  have 
a  clean  house  if  she  didn't  have  another  blessed 
thing.  She  had  planned  to  be  a  trained  nurse,  but 
she  married  Al  Hunt  just  as  soon  as  she  came  out 


194  The  House  Book 

of  the  hospital  and  she  sort  of  put  all  her  training 
into  her  housekeeping,  if  you  know  what  I  mean.  In 
her  smart  little  morning  frock  she  was  such  a  con- 
trast to  Lila  Ellis.  She's  been  married  five  years 
and  she's  just  as  slender  as  when  she  was 
engaged  and  a  great  deal  prettier.  To  be  sure 
she  has  had  no  children;  but  I  don't  think  that 
makes  any  difference.  It's  all  up  to  the  woman 
herself.  If  she  lets  herself  get  sloppy  she'll  run 
right  down.  If  she  doesn't,  she'll  look  trim.  Both 
as  a  woman  and  a  housekeeper  Callie  was  a  great 
lesson  to  me. 

I  asked  Tug  after  we  got  out  if  he  didn't  think 
she  was  a  marvel,  and  he  said — now  aren't  men 
queer — that  he  had  never  been  so  uncomfortable  in 
his  life.  He  said  that  the  house  felt  like  a  sana- 
torium. He  said  the  kitchen  looked  like  an  operat- 
ing-room. He  said  he  was  absolutely  sure  that 
Callie  sterilized  everything  we  touched  the  moment 
we  left  the  house.  "  I  understand  perfectly  now," 
he  said,  "  why  Al  Hunt  is  at  the  Club  every  night. 
He  feels  too  much  like  an  interne  if  he  stays  at 
home." 

Well,  after  we  left  Callie's,  we  went  to  all  the 
vacant  houses  and  apartments  in  town — all  except 
the  old  Durland  place;  of  course  there  was  no  use 
in  going  there.  And  I  guess  I  was  never  more  dis- 
couraged in  my  life.  Such  teeny-weeny  little  rooms 
and  such  gigantic  rents.  I  didn't  see  a  single  thing 
that  I  liked.  I  suppose  this  big  house  that  I've  al- 
ways lived  in  has  spoiled  me  for  small  ones.     Tug 


The  House  Book  195 

says  that  he's  having  Jake  Pebworth  out  to  dinner 
some  day  next  week  and  he'll  bring  him  here  to  talk 
things  over  and  perhaps  he  can  help  us.  I  hope  he 
can;  for  I  certainly  feel  quite  at  sea. 

January  n. 

Tug  brought  Jake  Pebworth  over  this  evening. 
I  like  him  tremendously,  although  I  stand  a  little  in 
awe  of  him.  He's  old  and  he's  young,  he's  hand- 
some and  he's  ugly,  he's  distinguished  and  he's  in- 
significant all  at  once,  if  you  know  what  I  mean. 
He's  not  very  tall  and  he  has  the  figure  of  a  boy 
of  seventeen;  he  jumps  about  like  a  jack-in-the-box. 
On  the  other  hand,  his  hair,  which  is  quite  long  and 
tumbled,  is  iron-gray.  But  his  eyes  are  as  blue — 
as  blue — as — as  blue.  His  features  are  put  onto  his 
face  every  which  way — his  nose  is  simply  indescriba- 
ble— and  yet  the  whole  effect  is — well,  you  keep  look- 
ing at  him,  that's  all  there  is  to  it — just  the  way  you 
have  to  keep  looking  at  an  open  fire,  even  when  it 
tires  your  eyes. 

The  first  thing  he  did  was — what  do  you  think — 
to  go  perfectly  mad  about  our  house!  He  went 
from  room  to  room  on  the  lower  floor,  simply  ex- 
ploding with  admiration.  Then  he  asked  permis- 
sion to  go  upstairs.  He  said  it  was  one  of  the 
best-built  houses  that  he  ever  saw  in  his  life.  He 
said  the  lines  and  proportions  of  it  were  perfect. 
He  said  it  made  even  other  houses  that  he'd  ever 
seen  in  Maywood  look  jerry-built,  whatever  that 
means.     Father  just  sat  there  and  beamed.     It  was 


196  The  House  Book 

nuts  to  him,  for  if  there's  one  thing  he's  crazy  about, 
it's  this  house.  He  hates  to  change  anything  about 
it — oh,  what  a  struggle  it  was  that  time  I  got  him 
to  do  it  all  over.  Mr.  Pebworth  asked  father  all 
kinds  of  questions.  He  seemed  particularly  struck 
with  the  marble  mantels  and  the  chandeliers  down- 
stairs. I  did  love  the  chandeliers  when  I  was  a  child. 
They  have  long  garlands  of  brass,  carved  with 
grapes  and  tiny  little  foxes'  heads  peering  out  from 
them.  But  I  have  always  hated  the  mantels — they 
look  like  mausoleums  to  me.  I  could  never  drape 
things  over  them  in  any  really  artistic  way.  Father 
told  Mr.  Pebworth  a  whole  lot  of  stuff  that  was  new 
to  me.  He  said  that  Mr.  Esdaile,  who  built  the 
house,  also  built  the  Durland  place.  He  was  a 
crank  on  old  things.  Every  time  a  fine  old  house  was 
dismantled  in  Boston,  he  used  to  go  in  and  buy  parts 
of  it.  It  seems  that  our  stairway  is  a  peach — the 
mahogany  rail  is  very  classy  for  some  reason  or 
other.  Well,  I  have  never  seen  anybody  so  crazy 
as  Mr.  Pebworth  was.  He  lingered  in  every  room. 
Finally  he  said  that  he  had  two  women  friends  in 
Maywood,  interior  decorators,  and  did  we  mind  if  he 
called  them  up  and  asked  them  up  to  see  our  house? 
I  knew  at  once  who  they  were  when  he  mentioned 
their  names — a  Miss  Ralph  and  a  Mrs.  Hollet, 
who  live  on  the  Gardner  Road,  great  friends  of  Mrs. 
Marsh's,  fierce  high-brows  and  terribly  exclusive. 
Of  course  father  and  mother  were  very  pleased.  I 
did  not  think  for  one  moment  that  they  would  come 
on  such  an  informal  invitation.     But  when  I  heard 


The  House  Book  197 

what  Mr.  Pebworth  said  over  the  telephone,  you 
would  certainly  have  thought  he  was  inviting  them 
to  see  Buckingham  Palace.  They  asked  if  they 
could  bring  a  Miss  Whiting,  who  happened  to  be 
calling  on  them.  Miss  Whiting  is  an  artist.  She 
has  a  studio  on  the  Gardner  Road  that  I've  always 
been  crazy  to  see  the  inside  of.  Well,  the  long  and 
short  of  it  was,  up  they  beat  it  in  a  machine.  Miss 
Ralph  is  little  and  wiry  and  quick  and  dark,  with 
snapping  black  eyes,  and  Mrs.  Hollet  is  big  and 
massive  and  slow  and  sort  of  glacial.  Miss  Whiting 
is  long  and  loppy,  the  very  personification  of  grace, 
a  regular  Burne- Jones.  Well,  I  guess  artistic  people 
must  be  alike,  for  they  were  just  as  bad  as  Mr. 
Pebworth.  They  raved  about  the  rooms  and  they 
raved  about  the  mantels  and  they  raved  about  the 
chandeliers  and  the  windows  and  the  doors  and 
even  the  latches  on  the  doors.  Mother  and  father 
just  ate  it  up.  Of  course  mother  made  her  usual 
hit;  and  you  could  see  they  were  crazy  about  her. 
I  didn't  feel  so  very  comfortable  myself.  For  when 
I  advanced  an  opinion,  they  listened  to  me  so  sort 
of  hard  that  it  was  really  embarrassing.  And  some- 
times before  I'd  get  half  through  what  I  had  to  say 
I'd  have  a  feeling  that  it  wasn't  especially  worth  say- 
ing anyway.    I  never  had  a  sensation  quite  like  it. 

After  a  while  they  asked  what  we  had  on  the 
wall  before  we  put  on  the  red  and  green  cartridge. 
Mother  told  them  all  about  the  queer  paper  that 
was  on  the  living-room  and  library,  great  big  scenes. 
I  remember  how  ashamed  I  used  to  be  of  it  when  I 


198  The  House  Book 

was  growing  up — it  was  so  antiquated  and  different 
from  what  everybody  else  had.  They  seemed  to 
know  all  about  it — they  called  it  a  "  landscape  " 
paper.  They  said  it  must  have  been  the  "  Lady  of 
the  Lake  "  pattern. 

I  don't  know  exactly  how  it  all  came  about;  but 
somebody,  mother  I  think,  mentioned  Aunt  Mary's 
furniture  and  Miss  Ralph  asked  if  they  could  see  it. 
Before  we  knew  it,  we  were  all  traipsing  out  to  the 
barn  carrying  lanterns  and  as  muffled  as  if  we  were 
going  motoring. 

I  didn't  realize  how  much  stuff  there  was  there — 
the  old  sideboard,  the  old  maple  highboy,  the  low- 
boy, a  secretary,  two  or  three  old  clocks,  half  a 
dozen  old  mirrors,  eight  or  nine  chests  of  drawers, 
chairs  and  couches  and  tables  galore.  They  all 
seemed  awfully  interested  in  them.  They  examined 
them  microscopically,  I  might  say.  They  asked  how 
long  they  had  been  in  the  barn  and  I  told  how  we 
did  the  house  all  over  a  few  years  ago.  And  I  guess 
they  thought  we  did  a  good  job,  too.  Mrs.  Hollet 
asked  mother  if  she  had  ever  thought  of  selling  the 
furniture  and  mother  said  she'd  as  soon  think  of 
selling  one  of  us.  Miss  Ralph  asked  if  she  might 
come  over  some  day  and  take  pictures.  It  seems 
that  the  highboy  is  a  six-legged  one  and  that's  very 
rare.  Miss  Ralph  is  writing  a  book  on  old  furniture 
and  she  illustrates  it  with  photographs.  It  seems 
that  Aunt  Mary's  stuff  is  especially  "  good  " — good 
is  the  word  they  always  used.  Fancy  Aunt  Mary's 
stuff  turning  out  to  be  valuable.     The  rest  of  the 


The  House  Book  199 

evening  Miss  Ralph  simply  kept  us  in  roars  describ- 
ing some  of  the  funny  experiences  she's  had  hunting 
up  old  truck.  They  were  all  three  awfully  nice  and 
they  made  mother  and  me  promise  that  we'd  come 
to  call.    And  we're  going  in  a  few  days. 


January  15. 

Yesterday  mother  received  a  note  from  Miss 
Whiting  asking  us  if  we  would  come  to  her  studio 
to-day  and  have  a  cup  of  tea  with  her.  Of  course 
we  were  delighted  to  go  and  went.  I  came  away 
perfectly  crazy  to  build  just  such  a  place  as  she  has. 
It's  a  bungalow — consisting  of  three  rooms  on  one 
floor — a  big  studio  (which  is  living-room,  library, 
and  bedroom) ,  a  dining-room,  a  kitchen.  The  other 
rooms  didn't  make  such  a  hit  with  me — but,  oh, 
that  studio  !  She  told  me  it  was  forty-one  by  twenty- 
three,  and  it  has  a  great  big  fireplace.  Such  a  won- 
derful place  to  give  dances  or  charades  or  theatricals 
in !  Of  course  it  was  interesting — all  artists'  places 
are.  The  furniture  was  mahogany.  "  But  I  have 
nothing  that  can  compare  with  the  beautiful  things 
in  your  barn,"  she  said.  It's  curious,  but  it  had 
never  entered  my  head  that  Aunt  Mary's  things  were 
beautiful.  I  suppose  it  was  because  I  was  brought 
up  with  them.  But  she  had  many  foreign  things  that 
took  the  curse  off.  After  we  had  been  there  a  long 
time,  Miss  Whiting  began  to  talk  about  the  difficulty 
of  getting  models.  I  paid  no  attention  at  first,  and 
mother  did  the  thing  she  always  does,  listened  at- 
tentively without  saying  much  herself.     But  Miss 


200  The  House  Book 

Whiting  kept  recurring  to  the  subject  and  finally  I 
began  to  realize  that  she  wanted  to  ask  something 
of  us.  At  first  it  occurred  to  me  that  she  wanted 
to  paint  my  portrait.  And  when  she  came  out  with 
it,  what  do  you  suppose  it  was — she  wanted  to  do 
mother.  I  was  never  so  surprised  in  my  life — in 
fact  you  could  have  knocked  me  down  with  a  feather. 
Of  course  I  know  that  my  mother  is  a  peach,  but 
I  wouldn't  think  an  artist  would  see  it — somehow 
I  would  expect  an  artist  to  want  to  paint  somebody 
with  more  color,  if  you  know  what  I  mean.  Well, 
mother  was  as  embarrassed  as  she  could  be.  But 
Miss  Whiting  was  just  lovely.  She  said  that  mother 
need  not  come  to  the  studio  at  all — she'd  come  to 
the  house — and  only  when  it  was  perfectly  con- 
venient. At  first  mother  wouldn't  hear  of  it.  But 
Miss  Whiting  kept  at  it,  and  of  course  I  played  her 
game  as  hard  as  ever  I  could.  Finally  mother  said 
yes.  And  then,  without  warning,  mother  remarked 
that  when  she  was  a  young  girl  a  whole  lot  of  artists 
came  to  North  Campion  one  summer  and  every  one 
of  them  painted  a  picture  of  her.  Now  isn't  that  the 
limit!  Mother  Martin  never  mentioned  a  word  of 
that  to  me  before.  I  guess  if  anybody  wanted  to 
paint  my  picture  I'd  have  it  put  in  the  paper.  Well, 
that  night  I  told  Tug  about  the  studio-plan.  It 
didn't  seem  to  make  any  hit  with  him  at  all.  He 
said  it  was  all  right  for  a  girl-artist  living  alone,  but 
when  it  came  to  a  married  couple — why,  they  must 
think  of  the  future  and  three  rooms  were  altogether 
too  few.     Of  course  when  Tug  put  it  that  way  to 


The  House  Book  201 

me,  I  saw  that  the  bungalow  was  entirely  out  of 
the  question.  Sometimes  I  think  I'm  not  so  prac- 
tical as  I  might  be.  And  of  course  it  isn't  as  if  I 
could  get  any  help  from  Tug.  Tug  knows  what  he 
doesn't  want;  but  he  isn't  what  I  call  creative.  I 
feel  more  at  sea  than  ever.  I  keep  taking  out  bound 
copies  of  the  magazines  from  the  library,  but  they 
only  seem  to  stir  me  up  without  getting  me  any- 
where. When  I'm  out  walking  or  motoring,  I  look 
at  nothing  but  houses.  It's  queer  what  you  don't 
take  in  about  architecture  until  you  begin  to  think 
of  building  yourself.  Sometimes  I  almost  think  we'd 
better  give  the  whole  thing  over  to  Jake  Pebworth, 
and  let  him  do  the  best  he  can  for  us.  But  some- 
how that  seems  so  sort  of  soulless  and  mechanical — 
if  you  know  what  I  mean.  It's  like  putting  a  nickel 
in  the  slot  and  taking  any  house  that  comes.  I  want 
my  house  to  represent  my  personality.  But  I'm  sure 
I  don't  know  what  my  personality  is.  Sometimes  I 
feel  quite  discouraged — or  would  if  mother  wasn't 
always  pointing  out  that  it  isn't  anything  that  I  have 
to  hurry  about. 

January  22. 

Yesterday  mother  and  I  went  to  tea  with  Mrs. 
Hollet  and  Miss  Ralph.  Oh,  I'm  so  glad  that  I  went, 
for  all  my  ideas  changed  completely.  I  feel  so  much 
better  now.  I  really  think  I  see  light  ahead.  There 
were  only  five  of  us  at  the  tea — our  hostesses,  Jake 
Pebworth,  mother,  and  me.  Their  house  is 
one  of  those  tiny  slant-roofed  farmhouses  that  you 


202  The  House  Book 

see  all  over  New  England.  I  have  always  thought 
it  very  little  and  old-fashioned  and  inconspicuous 
and  out-of-date.  At  least  that's  the  effect  on  the 
outside.  But  my  goodness,  what  a  difference  on 
the  inside!  You  enter  a  little  square  hall.  There 
are  small  rooms  on  either  side,  a  big  living-room  in 
the  back  and  leading  off  from  it  so  many  rooms  that 
I  really  got  mixed  up.  When  we  got  into  the  living- 
room,  the  strangest  thing  happened.  Mother  Mar- 
tin gave  one  look  about  and  then  the  tears  came 
right  straight  into  her  eyes.  I  didn't  know  what 
was  going  to  happen.  But  mother  said  right  off  that 
they  mustn't  think  she  was  going  to  cry,  because  she 
wasn't.  She  said  the  house  and  its  furnishings  re- 
minded her  so  much  of  the  way  the  house  looked 
in  North  Campion  when  she  was  a  girl  that  it  fairly 
made  her  homesick.  Then  she  wiped  her  eyes, 
smiled,  and  Mrs.  Hollet  said :  "  Then  I  know  you'll 
be  interested  to  see  what  we've  collected  in  the  way 
of  old  furniture."  They  took  us  all  over  the  house. 
Well,  that  was  when  I  got  my  first  shock.  For,  like 
Miss  Whiting,  their  furniture  was  all  old  mahogany, 
much  of  it  the  spit  of  Aunt  Mary's.  And  it  seems 
that  they  prefer  it  to  anything  else,  that  they  spend 
all  their  time  and  most  of  their  money  hunting  up 
old  stuff,  that  they  furnish  up  houses  for  people  with 
it.  It  seems  it's  the  thing  nowadays  to  have  colonial 
furniture  and  that  it  brings  fabulous  prices.  Aunt 
Mary's  six-legged  highboy,  for  instance — they  said 
they  could  sell  it  for  us  for  over  two  hundred  dollars 
if  we  wanted  to  part  with  it — in  fact  they  said  every- 


The  House  Book  203 

thing  of  Aunt  Mary's  was  exceptionally  beautiful, 
interesting,  and  hence,  valuable. 

Well,  if  I  wasn't  the  surprised  person.  I  knew, 
of  course,  that  most  people  cling  to  heirlooms;  but 
I  supposed  that  was  mainly  sentiment.  And  of 
course  I'd  heard  of  people  buying  antiques,  but  I 
thought  that  was  because  they  had  the  collecting 
bug.  I  went  around  like  a  girl  in  a  dream  and  just 
gawked  at  things — shelves  filled  with  old  china  like 
what  Mrs.  Ventry  used  to  collect,  shelves  with  old 
pewter,  old  glass,  candlesticks,  a  warming-pan, 
trays — I  don't  think  I  could  begin  to  enumerate 
them — and  listened  to  the  infinitesimal  prices  they 
had  paid  for  them  at  country  auctions. 

Later  Mr.  Pebworth  came.  Mrs.  Hollet  and 
Miss  Ralph  were  getting  the  tea  ready  and  they 
asked  me  if  I  would  show  him  a  pie-crust  table  that 
they  had  just  fixed  up.  It  was  in  another  room, 
and  after  we  got  there  alone  I  just  took  my  courage 
in  my  hand  and  I  said: 

"  Mr.  Pebworth,  I  don't  know  what  you  will 
think  of  me  for  what  I'm  going  to  say.  But  I'm 
a  very  ignorant  girl  very  much  in  need  of  advice. 
And  I'm  going  to  ask  you  to  help  me."  He  looked 
as  surprised,  but  he  stopped  jumping  about  and  came 
and  sat  down  beside  me.  I  said,  "  Tug  and  I,  as 
you  know,  have  this  money  to  buy  a  house,  and  it's 
all  up  to  me  to  choose  it.  I  can  have  anything  in 
the  world  that  five  thousand  dollars  will  buy.  But 
I  don't  know  what  I  want.  I  don't  even  know  what 
I  ought  to  want.    For  instance,  it  is  a  very  great  sur- 


204  The  House  Book 

prise  to  me  to  find  out  that  Aunt  Mary's  old  fur- 
niture is  so  valuable.  But  it's  a  greater  surprise  to 
find  that  it  is  beautiful.  I  can't  see  it — I  honestly 
can't.  I  prefer  modern  things — for  they  seem  so 
much  more  light  and  clean  and  convenient  and  smart. 
But  I  don't  want  to  make  any  mistakes  and  I  do  want 
to  buy  things  that  are  permanent.  And  if  old  things 
are  better  I  want  to  get  them.  But  I  want  to  know 
why." 

Well,  you  never  saw  anybody  so  sweet  and  kind 
and  sympathetic  as  he  was.  He  gave  me  the  nicest 
and  clearest  and  most  interesting  talk  I  ever  listened 
to.  He  began  by  saying  that  my  state  was  enviable 
because,  unlike  most  people,  I  knew  enough  to  know 
that  I  didn't  know  anything.  Then  he  took  up  the 
house  subject.  He  gave  me  a  little  lecture  on  archi- 
tecture and  he  told  me  just  what  was  wrong  with  the 
houses  that  I  had  looked  at  in  Maywood.  He  ended 
by  saying,  "  Why,  Miss  Martin,  you're  living  now 
in  a  house  that  is  a  model  of  taste.  I'll  be  frank 
with  you  and  tell  you  that,  from  my  point  of  view, 
the  point  of  view  of  anybody  with  a  cultivated 
taste,  you  ruined  it  by  putting  that  new  paper  on  and 
buying  all  that  modern  furniture.  I  cannot  bear  to 
think  of  that  splendid  mahogany  rusting  in  the  barn 
— it  must  have  been  wonderful  in  those  fine,  noble 
big  rooms."  That  brought  him  to  the  subject  of 
furniture.  He  said  that  the  love  of  old  things  was 
often  a  slow  growth,  the  result  of  careful  study  and 
careful  observation.  Much  of  our  enjoyment  came 
simply  because  they  were  old  and  adapted  them- 


The  House  Book  205 

selves  to  the  simpler  needs  of  a  simpler  time.  An- 
other reason  that  we  love  them  is  that  they  are 
hand-made  and  have  all  the  engaging  little  irregu- 
larities of  hand  work.  But  the  thing  that  makes 
them  most  desirable,  after  all,  aside  from  their  use- 
fulness, is  that  they  are  really  more  beautiful — the 
lines  are  more  simple,  graceful,  dignified.  There 
was  a  lot  more  that  I  don't  remember.  But  he  ended 
by  giving  me  a  list  of  books  on  old  furniture.  He 
said,  "  If  you  really  want  to  understand  the  colonial 
type,  read  and  study  these  books.  Every  time  you 
have  a  chance  to  look  at  old  furniture  study  it  care- 
fully. Go  out  into  your  barn  and  look  at  your  Aunt 
Mary's  stuff  every  day  for  a  month  and  see  if  at  the 
end  you  don't  understand." 

We  had  an  awfully  good  time  at  tea — but  I  guess 
I  never  was  so  silent  and  absent  in  company  in  my 
life;  for  all  the  time  I  was  looking  about  me  and 
thinking  very  hard  of  what  Mr.  Pebworth  said. 
And  then,  I  was  troubled,  too,  for  though  I  could 
see  that  that  house  was  wonderfully  consistent,  it 
truly  and  honestly  gave  me  an  uncomfortable  feel- 
ing. I  couldn't  analyze  it  enough  to  realize  what  it 
was.  But  on  the  way  home,  mother  said  something 
that  hit  the  nail  right  on  the  head.  I  asked  her  what 
she  thought  of  it,  and  she  said,  "  Well,  I  loved  to 
see  all  those  old  things  because  they  brought  back 
my  girlhood.  But  after  a  while  I  had  a  queer  feel- 
ing about  them.  It  seemed  so  wrong  for  them  to 
be  on  shelves.  We  used  our  old  things — we  didn't, 
as  you  might  say,  make  a  collection  of  them.    I  felt 


206  The  House  Book 

as  if  I  was  in  a  museum  looking  at  things  in  glass 
cases."  That  was  exactly  the  way  I  felt.  And  I 
suppose  that's  the  way  Tug  felt  about  Callie  Hunt's 
house.  On  the  whole,  I  guess  a  house  isn't  a  home 
if  you  make  an  exhibition-hall  of  it,  whether  it's  cut- 
glass  and  painted  china  like  Callie's  or  old  pewter 
and  silver  like  Miss  Ralph's.  It  is  certainly  very 
puzzling. 

February  23. 

The  night  I  came  home  from  tea  with  Mrs.  Hollet 
and  Miss  Ralph  I  told  Tug  that  I  wasn't  going  to 
think  of  the  house  for  a  whole  month.  I  was  going 
to  put  every  plan  and  idea  that  I'd  had  out  of  my 
head  and  see  what  leaving  it  alone  would  do. 
Mother  says  a  watched  pot  never  boils,  and  I  guess 
I  had  too  many  ideas  for  my  own  good.  Anyway, 
I  decided  to  put  the  pot  on  the  back  of  the  stove 
and  let  it  simmer.  And  I've  done  that  thing.  In 
the  meantime,  I've  got  hold  of  every  book  on  old 
furniture  that  I  could  beg,  borrow,  or  steal  and  I've 
read  them  from  beginning  to  end  and  from  end 
to  beginning.  I  don't  know  how  it  came  about 
— perhaps  it  was  the  fact  that  I  have  thought  of 
nothing  else — but  I've  got  sort  of — obsessed  (I 
guess  that's  the  word)  with  old  things.  You  can't 
read  of  the  care  and  thought  and  interest  and  love 
with  which  they  were  made  without  coming  to  have 
a  sort  of  tenderness  for  them.  Some  of  the  chairs 
and  crickets  are  such  darlings.     Even  the  kitchen 


The  House  Book  207 

things — I'm  simply  mad  about  those  old  pots  and 
skillets ! 

To-day  I  had  a  long  talk  with  mother.  I  told 
her  how  I  had  changed  my  opinion  about  Aunt 
Mary's  mahogany,  and  if  she  would  let  me  use  some 
of  it  in  my  house  after  I  was  married  I  would  take 
the  most  precious  care  of  it.  I  told  mother  quite 
frankly  that,  if  I  were  she,  I'd  get  rid  of  all  the 
modern  stuff  that's  in  our  house  now  and  have  Aunt 
Mary's  furniture  done  over  and  put  right  back  in 
the  places  where  they  used  to  stand.  I  told  mother 
that,  now  when  I  looked  back  on  it,  it  seemed  to 
me  I  had  influenced  her  and  father  unduly  in  getting 
the  new  stuff.  You  should  have  heard  mother  laugh. 
She  said  that  getting  that  new  furniture  was  all  her 
idea  (though  later  I  noticed  when  we  talked  it  over 
with  father  he  said  it  was  all  his  idea).  Mother 
said  that  she  was  glad,  however,  that  I  had  grown 
to  love  Aunt  Mary's  things  because  she'd  always 
had  a  guilty  feeling  about  their  being  out  in  the  barn. 
She  said  I  could  have  them  all  and  welcome.  But 
I  said  I  should  only  take  half,  because  half  really 
belonged  to  Ern.  Mother  wrote  Ern  and  asked 
him  if  he  wanted  half,  and  he  said,  no,  he  hated 
the  darned  old  truck.  But  just  the  same  I  shall 
divide  them  with  the  utmost  care.  For  if  Ern  Mar- 
tin doesn't  know  enough  to  appreciate  those  beauti- 
ful things,  his  wife  will,  and  I'm  not  going  to  have 
her  say  that  I  hogged  all  the  family  heirlooms. 

But  I  am  just  as  much  at  sea  in  regard  to  the 
house. 


208  The  House  Book 

February  27. 

I  am  going  to  tell  just  what  happened  to-day  in 
the  order  in  which  it  happened. 

When  Tug  and  I  went  out  for  a  walk  this  after- 
noon, we  met  Lila  Ellis.  She  stopped  and  asked  us 
how  the  house  was  coming  on.  Of  course  I  had 
to  say  that  I  hadn't  made  up  my  mind  yet.  Then 
she  asked  us  if  we  wouldn't  come  home  with  her 
and  talk  it  over.  I  went — well,  I  must  confess, 
mainly  because  I  didn't  know  how  to  say  no.  She 
was  wheeling  the  baby.  But  after  we  turned  round, 
Tug  took  it  out  of  her  hands  in  the  most  natural 
way  in  the  world.  It  was  the  strangest  thing  to 
see  Tug  pushing  that  baby-carriage.  Tug  is  such 
a  dear.  I  don't  suppose  Ern  Martin  or  Tom 
Deane  or  Fred  Partland  would  be  caught  dead  doing 
such  a  thing.  But  Tug  was  as  unconcerned  and  un- 
conscious, making  jokes  every  step  of  the  way. 
When  we  got  to  the  door,  he  lifted  little  Molly  up 
and  carried  her  into  the  house  as  naturally  as  if 
he'd  taken  care  of  babies  all  his  life. 

Well,  the  moment  I  stepped  into  Lila  Ellis's 
house  I  loved  it.  We  walked  straight  into  a  great 
big  living-room  flooded  with  sunlight.  There  was 
a  huge  fireplace  at  one  end  that  ran  to  the  very 
ceiling,  made  of  old  Delft  tiles  with  funny  Biblical 
pictures  and  inscriptions  on  them.  The  room  was 
very  simply,  almost  scantily  furnished  with  a  few 
old  pieces  that  were  quite  as  good  as  Aunt  Mary's. 
The  furniture  certainly  looked  as  if  it  had  been 
used.     But  I  mustn't  waste  time  talking  about  the 


The  House  Book  209 

house;  for,  in  front  of  the  fire,  sat  three  of  the 
most  beautiful  children  I  have  ever  laid  my  eyes  on. 
The  oldest  boy  is  Ralph,  brown-haired  and  gray- 
eyed,  slender,  aristocratic-looking — he  might  be  a 
prince  of  the  blood.  Then  comes  Marcia,  a  per- 
fect little  angel-blonde — curls  tumbling  off  her  head 
by  the  hundreds — Lila  says  it's  all  she  can  do  to  get 
a  comb  through  them.  Then  comes  Gideon,  who's 
black-haired  and  black-eyed — the  football  type,  a 
perfectly  corking-looking  child,  and  Molly  the  baby, 
who's  red-headed,  pink-cheeked,  and  covered  with 
dimples.  I  never  saw  such  children.  They  looked 
as  if  they'd  never  had  a  sick  day  in  their  lives.  And 
when  Lila  took  off  that  mangy  fur  coat  and  revealed 
a  little  house-dress  of  dark  gingham,  her  hair,  gray 
as  it  was,  floating  like  a  soft  cloud  above  her  fore- 
head and  that  pinky  color  in  her  face  which  comes 
from  being  out-of-doors  so  much  with  the  baby — 
why  she  looked  like  a  madonna. 

After  a  while  Lila  told  the  children,  who  were 
tumbling  all  over  Tug,  that  they  must  take  care  of 
the  baby  while  she  served  tea.  And  if  you  will 
believe  it  those  children  sat  down  and  played  with 
Molly — obedient  as  trained  animals.  After  we 
had  tea,  Lila  took  us  all  through  the  house. 

I  never  saw  a  house  like  it — Tug  was  wild  about 
it.  It  seems  that  it  was  an  old  broken-down  place 
to  begin  with.  Lila  said,  "  My  father  gave  me 
three  thousand  dollars  and  all  my  mother's  furni- 
ture for  a  wedding-gift.  I  could  have  had  a  new 
house  with  that  money,  but  oh,  it  would  have  been 


210  The  House  Book 

so  little  and  cramped.  Then  Ralph  and  I  happened 
to  see  this  and  I  decided  to  buy  it — I  would  be 
ashamed  to  tell  you  what  we  paid  for  it — and  put 
the  rest  of  the  money  into  good  plumbing  and  mod- 
ern conveniences." 

I  can't  go  into  everything,  but  there  was  a  bath- 
room that  was  a  perfect  wonder  and  a  kitchen  with 
so  many  modern  conveniences  that  it  seemed  as  if 
all  you  had  to  do  was  to  touch  a  button  and  the 
house  cleaned  itself.  But  I  must  describe  the 
nursery — the  great  big  room  that  was  formerly  the 
attic.  It  was  papered  with  Mother  Goose  paper, 
all  the  books  and  toys  on  shelves  and  in  closets 
and  made  just  right  for  children  to  sleep  and  play 
in.  It  was  the  most  lovely  child's  room  I  ever  saw. 
Lila  had  a  kitchenette  put  in  right  beside  it,  with 
an  electric  stove  and  a  refrigerator.  She  never  has 
to  go  downstairs  for  anything  that  the  children  need. 
She  says  I  can't  possibly  have  any  idea  the  steps 
that  alone  has  saved  her — especially  at  night  and 
in  case  of  illness. 

After  a  while  we  came  downstairs  and  Tug  had 
a  frolic  with  the  babies.  It  was  a  revelation  to  me. 
I  hadn't  any  idea  Tug  was  so  fond  of  children. 
Children  always  come  to  me,  but  I  don't  consider 
that  I'm  much  of  a  hand  with  them,  but  Tug  is  a 
perfect  wizard.  He  got  right  down  on  the  floor, 
notwithstanding  he  was  wearing  a  new  suit,  and 
they  climbed  all  over  him. 

After  a  while  Tug  had  to  leave.  Then  Lila  and 
I  had  a  long  talk. 


The  House  Book  211 

I  guess  I've  got  to  revise  every  idea  I  ever  had 
of  Lila  Ellis;  for,  after  that  talk,  there's  nobody 
in  this  town  I  admire  more.  She  told  me  something 
about  her  life  before  she  was  married.  It  was  far 
from  a  bed  of  roses.  To  think  how  I  used  to  envy 
her!  Her  mother  died  when  she  was  a  little  girl. 
She  grew  up  just  adoring  her  father  and  her  brother 
Tom.  But  first  her  brother  married  a  woman  who 
became  very  jealous  of  her,  then  her  father  did. 
"  It  seems  incredible  what  things  women  can  do  to 
men  and  with  them,  Phoebe,"  she  said,  "  but  after 
a  while  those  women  managed  to  alienate  my  father 
and  brother  from  me,  although  I  tried  to  steer  as 
tactful  a  course  as  I  could.  I  haven't  seen  Tom 
for  five  years  now,  and  after  my  father  had  been 
married  two  years,  he  proposed  that  I  should  go 
somewhere  to  board.  Oh,  what  a  miserable  time 
I  had  until  I  married  Ralph !  Nobody  knows  what 
an  unhappy  thing  I  was;  for  I  never  told  anybody. 
I  made  up  my  mind  after  I  was  married  that  I  was 
going  to  surround  myself  with  love — the  only  kind 
of  love  that  never  fails.  And,  oh,  I've  been  so 
happy  with  my  children.  I  haven't  half  enough.  I 
want  to  have  a  little  brood  round  me.  Molly's  be- 
ginning to  walk  now  and  already  I  feel  as  if  I  must 
have  a  little  baby  in  the  house.  Of  course  I've 
given  up  my  life  to  them.  People  don't  hesitate  to 
intimate  to  me  that  I'm  pursuing  a  very  foolish 
course.  They  tell  me  I'm  falling  behind  the  times; 
and  it  is  true  that  I  don't  get  much  chance  to  read. 
They  don't  hesitate  to  tell  me  that  I'm  losing  my 


212  The  House  Book 

looks — as  if  my  mirror  would  conceal  that  fact  from 
me.  But  I  can't  seem  to  care  about  my  looks — 
Marcia  and  Molly  have  all  the  beauty  we  need  in 
this  family.  They  are  always  holding  up  Callie 
Hunt — I  think  Callie  Hunt's  house  is  a  horror. 
I'm  a  perfectly  happy  woman.  I  wouldn't  change 
with  anybody.  People  do  give  me  credit  for  one 
thing,  though.  They  say  that  I  have  the  best  chil- 
dren in  town.  But  they're  good  because  I  keep  at 
the  job  of  making  them  good.  People  say  I  have 
wonderful  discipline,  but  I  have  to  give  all  my  time 
and  energy  to  maintaining  that  discipline.  I  can't 
let  up  for  a  moment.  Best  of  all,  we're  all  well — 
the  children  and  Ralph  and  I.  I  lay  half  our  good 
health  to  the  roominess  and  convenience  of  this 
house." 

I  walked  home  alone.  On  the  way,  I  passed  the 
old  Durland  house,  and  the  idea  came  to  me  that 
I  would  like  to  see  the  inside.  I  didn't  have  a  key, 
but  I  climbed  in  through  a  window  at  the  back. 

It  was  the  most  beautiful  old  place  I  ever  was 
in — except  my  own  home — spacious  and  dignified 
but  simple  and  quaint  too.  Downstairs  there's  a 
long  room  on  one  side  of  the  lovely  big  hall  and 
two  rooms  on  the  other.  Upstairs  there  are  four 
chambers  and  a  great  garret  that  would  make  a 
lovely  nursery.  There  are  fireplaces  in  all  the 
rooms.  And  then  the  details  of  it  are  so  fascinating 
— the  woodwork,  the  paneling,  the  doors  and  win- 
dows, and  the  quaint,  queer  closets  everywhere. 
Somehow  an  old  house  is  such  a  friendly  place.     I 


The  House  Book  213 

sat  on  the  fine  old  stairway  for  a  long  time,  plan- 
ning where  I  would  put  Aunt  Mary's  things  if  it 
belonged  to  me.  I  was  thinking  what  had  probably 
happened  there — births  and  deaths  and  weddings 
and  funerals  and  dances  and  theatricals — when  sud- 
denly I  remembered  something  that  old  Mrs.  Sawyer 
told  me  once.  When  she  was  a  girl,  the  Durlands 
themselves  lived  there.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Durland 
were  blonde  and  they  had  eight  beautiful  children — 
just  like  a  flight  of  stairs  for  size — all  blonde,  too. 
Mrs.  Sawyer  said  that  everybody  used  to  call  them 
"  the  angels."  She  said  the  girls  grew  up  per- 
fect beauties,  and  one  of  them,  Esther  Durland, 
married  a  very  distinguished  Englishman — he  was 
Prime  Minister  or  something.  I  tried  to  imagine 
those  eight  little  fairy  beings  tumbling  up  and  down 

those  stairs.    Well,  perhaps 

After  dinner  I  told  Tug  that  I  would  rather  buy 
the  old  Durland  house  than  build  a  new  one.  To 
my  great  surprise,  Tug  was  perfectly  delighted.  He 
said  that  pleased  him  more  than  anything  I  could 
do.  And  he  told  me  something  he  never  told  me 
before.  He  said  that  all  his  life,  our  house  has 
been  his  ideal  of  a  home.  He  said  that  he  will  never 
forget  as  long  as  he  lives  what  fun  he  used  to  have 
rainy  days  in  the  Playroom  when  all  the  children  in 
the  neighborhood  were  gathered  there.  He  says 
that,  in  some  ways,  it  seems  more  like  a  home  to 
him  than  his  own  house.  He  said  that  Callie  Hunt's 
house  wasn't  a  home  at  all,  because  there  was  too 
much  system  in  it,  and  that  Miss  Ralph's  place  wasn't 


214  The  House  Book 

a  home  because  there  was  too  much  art;  but  that 
Lila's  house  was  a  real  home  because  it  was  all 
heart.  What  beautiful  ideas  Tug  has!  I  wonder 
I  didn't  consult  him  in  the  first  place. 

THE   END   OF   THE    HOUSE   BOOK 


CHAPTER  VIII 
I,  PHOEBE,  TAKE  THEE,  TOLAND 

EARLY  as  it  was  that  blue-and-gold  October 
morning,  the  house  quivered  and  hummed  and 
rocked  with  suppressed  excitement.  A  medley  of 
sounds  filtered  through  it  and  Mr.  Martin  lay  for 
a  while  listening  to  them.  Finally  he  arose.  He 
bathed,  shaved  and  dressed  with  a  leisureliness  that 
had  an  effect  of  premeditated  delay.  When  he  left 
the  room,  the  domestic  excitement  had  grown  rather 
than  diminished.  But  it  did  not  seem  to  affect  Mr. 
Martin.  Halfway  down  the  long  hall,  he  even 
paused  for  a  moment. 

The  door  of  Phoebe's  room  was  open.  Its  whole 
length  and  breadth — the  polished,  rugless  floor,  the 
expanse  of  rose-garlanded  wall-paper — lay  re- 
vealed in  the  brilliant  sunlight.  Dismantled,  her 
little  bed  presented  only  a  stark  white  framework 
to  her  father's  eye.  Her  dressing-case — it  was  her 
whim  to  have  it  so  low  that  she  must  sit  to  it — was 
bare  of  its  silver  accessories.  The  table  glared,  the 
writing-desk  gaped,  the  bookcase  yawned  empty.  In 
one  corner  stood  a  trunk,  a  box  of  books,  a  box 
of  bric-a-brac,  a  pile  of  pictures,  everything  care- 
fully wrapped  in  tissue-paper.  Near  was  a  tiny 
wooden  chair,  rope-seated. 

215 


216        I,  Phoebe,  Take  Thee,  Toland 

Mr.  Martin  went  slowly  down  the  front  stairs. 
The  dining-room  was  deserted.  Not  alone  deserted, 
it  looked  empty;  for  much  of  the  furniture  had 
been  moved  out.  An  orange  lay  on  a  plate  at  Mr. 
Martin's  place,  the  skin  cut  petal-wise  and  turned 
away  from  the  fruit  in  the  fashion  that  only  Phoebe's 
fingers  had  the  patience  to  follow.  The  door-bell 
rang  presently  and  the  excitement  in  the  house 
flashed  to  a  flame.  As  he  ate,  Mr.  Martin  listened 
to  it  all.  Came  to  him  the  sound  of  heavy,  alien 
feet,  of  gruff,  alien,  masculine  accents,  questioning; 
came  Mrs.  Martin's  voice  suggesting,  Phoebe's  en- 
treating, Ernest's  commanding.  But  Mr.  Martin 
made  no  move.  He  did  not  even  look  out  the 
window. 

"  Why,  how  long  have  you  been  up,  Edward?  " 
Mrs.  Martin  said,  appearing  suddenly  in  the  door- 
way. "  I  didn't  hear  you  stir.  And  how  tired  you 
look!  I  shouldn't  think  you'd  closed  your  eyes. 
Isn't  this  a  beautiful  day?  So  warm — and  it  looked 
so  much  like  rain  last  night.     Happy  the  bride  the 

sun Just  think,  Edward,  the  expressmen  never 

came  for  the  furniture  in  Phoebe's  room  until  this 
moment,  although  they  promised  they'd  be  here  last 
night  and  we  waited  for  them  until  nearly  eleven 
o'clock.  Why  is  it  that  people  have  no  honor  about 
such  things?  Phoebe's  been  so  worried  for  fear 
they  wouldn't  come  at  all.  She  would  get  up,  al- 
though I  did  my  best  to  make  her  stay  in  bed.  It 
was  all  I  could  do  to  keep  her  from  going  down  to 
the  house  to  see  that  the  furniture  was  put  in  the 


I,  Phoebe,  Take  Thee,  Toland        217 

right  places.  I  told  her  it  would  be  perfectly  inde- 
cent for  her  to  appear  out  to-day.  Finally,  Ernie 
said  he'd  ride  down  with  the  load.  Phoebe  drew 
up  a  plan  where  everything  was  to  go  and  she  made 
Ernie  promise  he'd  mop  up  after  the  expressmen — 
she's  crazy  for  fear  they'll  track  her  lovely  floors 
all  up.  Her  heart's  set  on  having  that  house  as 
neat  as  a  pin  when  they  come  back  to  it.  I  never 
saw  such  a  particular  child.      If  she  thinks  she's 

going  to  do  all  her  housekeeping  on  that  scale 

But  it  certainly  does  look  lovely.  It  does  seem 
strange,  Edward,  that  you've  shown  so  little  curi- 
osity about  it.    Why,  you  haven't  been  down  there 

since If  I  was  Phoebe,  I  wouldn't  know  what 

to  make  of  it.    When  are  you  coming  out?  " 

"  About  four,  I  guess,"  Mr.  Martin  said. 

"  I  don't  believe  there's  any  need  of  your  going 
into  the  office,"  Mrs.  Martin  observed  with  disap- 
proval. "  I  guess  they  could  get  along  one  day 
without  you.  What  would  they  do  if  you  broke 
your  leg?  We'll  have  dinner  at  noon — a  steak — 
that's  so  easy  to  cook.  And,  to-night,  we'll  have 
a  picked-up  supper — for  we'll  all  have  to  eat  again 
at  ten.  Yes,  Mary,"  she  interrupted  herself  to  ad- 
dress the  sullen-looking  girl  who  had  appeared  in 
the  doorway,  "that's  right!  Clear  everything 
right  away!  "  She  paused  until  Mary  had  left  the 
room.  Then,  "  Edward,"  her  voice  lowered  to 
panic-striken  sibilance,  "  Mary's  in  one  of  her  tem- 
pers to-day.  I'm  just  handling  her  with  gloves. 
I'm  so  afraid  that  she'll  go  and  leave  me  in  the 


218        I,  Phoebe,  Take  Thee,  Toland 

lurch  that  I  don't  know  what  to  do.  There,  there's 
the  door-bell  again !  "    Mrs.  Martin  vanished. 

"  It  was  Bradley,"  she  exclaimed,  returning  after 
a  colloquy  at  the  door.  "  He's  delivered  the  chrys- 
anthemums. He  promised  Phoebe  solemnly  that  he 
wouldn't  get  them  here  before  three  this  afternoon 
— and  here  they  are  at  half-past  seven.  Isn't  it 
strange  how  little  honor  people  have  about  such 
things?  But  the  man  said  they  were  all  fixed  in 
damp  paper  so  they  couldn't  possibly  wilt.  Phoebe's 
attending  to  them  herself,  although  I  begged  her  to 
let  me.  If  she'd  only  lie  down  or  just  sit  down 
and  read.  She  said  she  couldn't  read  if  her  life 
depended  on  it.  What  time  did  you  say  you'd  get 
out?" 

14  About  four,"  Mr.  Martin  answered. 

"There,  there's  the  telephone!"  Mrs.  Martin 
vanished.  "  I'll  answer  it,  Phoebe,"  she  called. 
41  Hello!  Hello!  Oh,  good-morning,  Molly !  Yes. 
I  think  so.  But  I'll  have  to  ask  Phoebe.  Phoebe! 
It's  Molly  Tate.  She  says  she's  just  stepped  into 
Bradley's  to  see  the  bridesmaids'  baskets  and  she's 
quite  sure  they're  using  the  kind  you  didn't  like." 

Mrs.  Martin  re-entered  the  room.  From  the  hall 
came  Phoebe's  voice.  u  Hello,  Molly !  No!  Well, 
of  all  incredible  stupidity!  Certainly — the  gold 
ones — they're  shaped  like  darling  old-fashioned 
poke-bonnets.  Oh,  you're  a  dear,  Molly.  Thank 
you."  Mr.  Martin  heard  the  click  as  Phoebe  hung 
up.  Then  the  bell  rang  again.  44  Hello  !  Hello  ! 
Oh,  Tug!    Good-morning.    Many  happy  returns  of 


I,  Phoebe,  Take  Thee,  Toland        219 

the  day!  No.  No.  Certainly  not!  I  don't  know 
why,  but  mother  says  you  can't  come  over  here  to- 
day. It  would  be  a  fierce  breach  of  etiquette.  What 
nonsense.  Everybody  would  see  you.  Tug  War- 
burton,  if  you  come  over  here,  I  shan't  marry  you." 
Again  Mr.  Martin  heard  the  determined  snap  with 
which  Phoebe  hung  up. 

"  Aren't  you  going  to  eat  any  more  breakfast 
than  that,  Edward? "  Mrs.  Martin  went  on. 
"  You'll  be  faint  by  ten.    But  I'll  have  a  good  dinner 

this   noon.     Steak — that's    always    so    easy   to 

What  time  did  you  say  you'd  get  out?  Oh,  yes,  I 
remember — four.  I'll  lay  all  your  things  on  your 
bed  and  have  the  water  drawn  for  your  bath. 
There,  there's  the  telephone  again."  Mrs.  Martin 
vanished. 

"  It's  Madame  Lily,  Phoebe,"  she  called  in  an- 
other instant.  "  She  wants  to  know  if  she  can  come 
an  hour  later.  You'd  better  come  down  and  talk 
with  her  yourself." 

"  All  right,"  Phoebe's  voice  floated  down  from 
the  heights.  Followed  the  soft  swift  patter  of  her 
downstairs  progress.  Then,  "  Good-morning,  Ma- 
dame Lily.  Yes,  later  will  do  just  as  well.  In  fact, 
I  prefer  it.  No,  I  prefer  to  do  my  own  hair.  But 
I  want  massage  and  my  hands  manicured.  And  of 
course  you're  to  do  mother's  hair.  Mother,  you'd 
better  have  a  facial  massage,  hadn't  you?  " 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,"  came  Mrs.  Martin's  most 
uncertain  accents. 

"  You've  simply  got  to,  mother.     It'll  set  you  up 


220        I,  Phoebe,  Take  Thee,  Toland 

so,  besides  making  you  look  so  swell.  All  right, 
Lily,  darling.  Half-past  four — and  mother'll  have 
facial  beside." 

"  I'm  glad  we've  got  that  matter  settled,"  Mrs. 
Martin  explained,  reappearing  in  the  dining-room. 
"  Madame  Lily  had  another  wedding  in  Rosedale 
and  there  was  some  difficulty  about  the  hours.  At 
first  it  looked  as  if  we  wouldn't  get  her  at  all.  But 
Phoebe's  heart  was  set  on  having  Lily — she's  so 
much  nicer  than  anybody  else.    Beside " 

"  Good-morning,  father-in-law  elect,"  Phoebe 
greeted  her  father  buoyantly  from  the  door. 

"  Good-morning,  bride,"  Mr.  Martin  responded 
in  kind. 

Phoebe's  manner  had  its  best  touch  of  cheer  and 
she  stopped  to  imprint  on  the  top  of  her  father's 
head  a  kiss  that  was  deliberately  airy.  Then  she 
wound  her  blue  kimono  about  her,  curled  up  in  the 
big  chair,  and  sat  kicking  one  slipper  off  and  on. 
"  I've  been  up  since  five  o'clock,"  she  explained, 
11  and,  already,  I  feel  as  if  it  were  to-morrow.  I 
lay  awake  half  the  night  worrying.  I'm  convinced 
that  Tug  will  forget  the  ring  and  the  license  and 
the  check  for  Mr.  Cameron.  I'm  absolutely  cer- 
tain that  Ada  Warburton  will  be  late — she's  never 
been  known  to  be  on  time  for  anything.  I'm  per- 
fectly dead  sure  that  the  carriage  won't  call  for  us 
at  all.  And  I  know  just  as  well  as  I  know  my 
name  that  I  shall  forget  to  take  my  carnage  shoes 
off.  Now  just  imagine  traipsing  up  the  aisle  in 
those  red  felt  things  with  the  black  fur  tops.    I  woke 


I,  Phoebe,  Take  Thee,  Toland        221 

up  at  five  this  morning  in  a  cold  perspiration  with 
the  conviction  that  my  gloves  wouldn't  fit.  And 
up  I  got  at  that  hour  and  tried  them  on.  Of  course 
it  was  all  off  about  sleeping  after  that." 

11  There,  that  reminds  me,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Mar- 
tin, "  I  must  slit  up  the  ring-finger  of  your  glove. 
I'll  do  that  now  while  I  think  of  it.  Now,  where 
are  my  scissors?  " 

"Well,  father,"  said  Phoebe,  still  deliberately 
gay,  "  what  do  you  think  of  the  Martin  family  in 
their  famous  knock-about  act?  Oh,  and,  father,  that 
reminds  me.  When  Mr.  Cameron  asks  me  if  1*11 
take  Tug  for  richer  or  poorer,  better  or  worser, 
gooder  or  badder,  and  all  that,  if  I  stand  there  petri- 
fied with  terror — just  gawking  at  him — will  you 
kindly  pinch  me?  " 

"  Can't  promise,  Phoebe,"  said  Mr.  Martin  in 
a  tone  every  whit  as  light  as  hers.  "  I've  lain  awake 
all  night  trying  to  remember  that  when  Cameron 
says,  '  Who  giveth  this  woman  to  be  married  to 
this  man?'  it's  up  to  me  to  do  something.  If  I 
take  my  mind  off  it  for  a  single  instant  I  lose  the 
combination." 

"  Oh,"  said  Phoebe,  "  if  mother  was  only  in  it 
she'd  pull  us  through  some  way  or  other.  Why 
don't  they  get  mothers  into  the  marriage  cere- 
mony? " 

"  Probably,"  said  Mrs.  Martin,  pausing  in  arrow- 
flight  for  an  instant  of  unaccustomed  sarcasm,  "  be- 
cause they  realized  that  the  mother  would  be  in 
the  doctor's  hands  by  that  time.     Now,  Phoebe,  I 


222        I,  Phoebe,  Take  Thee,  Toland 

can  tend  to  everything  now.  Don't  you  think  you 
could  go  upstairs  and  lie  down?  " 

"Lie  down!  Why,  mother,  I'd  explode  into  a 
million  pieces." 

11  Why  don't  you  lie  down  yourself,  Bertha?" 
Mr.  Martin  suggested.  "  You're  running  round 
like  a  hen  with  her  head  cut  off." 

"  Lie  down !  "  Mrs.  Martin  repeated.  "  Lie 
down!  Well,  if  that  isn't  just  like  a  man!  I  don't 
see  how  I'm  going  to  get  my  bath  in.  There,  there's 
Cousin  Lora  coming  down  the  street.  Thank  good- 
ness !  Now  when  do  you  suppose  those  boys'll  get 
here?  Just  think,  Edward,  Horrie  Tate  and  Sig 
Lathrop  and  Red  Donovan  have  been  up  ever  since 
six  o'clock  cutting  maple-boughs.  Ernie  was  to  join 
them  and  then  come  back  here.  I  warned  him  to 
get  them  started  just  as  soon  as  he  could.  One  load 
goes  to  the  church.  Molly  and  Florence  and  Sylvia 
and  the  twins  and  Evelyn  Warburton  are  there  al- 
ready, decorating.  Good-morning,  Lora;  you're 
bright  and  early,  aren't  you?  " 

Cousin  Lora,  a  little,  thin,  wiry,  dark  woman, 
with  the  snapping  efficiency  of  a  whipcord  in  every 
movement,  greeted  them  all  energetically. 

Under  cover  of  the  family  preoccupation,  Mr. 
Martin  quietly  subtracted  himself  from  the  group. 

"  Oh,  Lora,"  Mrs.  Martin  said  in  a  relieved 
tone,  "  I'm  so  glad  Edward's  taking  it  so  easy.  At 
first  I  thought  he'd  be  all  broken  up.  Well,  I  don't 
suppose  men  feel  these  things  the  way  women  do. 
Now,  before  you  lay  your  finger  to  anything,  I  want 


I,  Phoebe,  Take  Thee,  Toland        223 

you  to  come  upstairs  and  see  the  wedding  dress. 
Oh,  Phoebe's  had  such  a  time  selecting  the  material 
— she  said  it  had  got  to  be  soft  and  floating.  White 
satin  she  can't  abide.  Chiffon  was  too  stiff — crepe- 
de-chine  even  was  too  heavy.  She  found  some  pearl- 
white  liberty  silk  that  was  so  sheer It  took  a 

terribly  large  pattern  and  yet  you  can  draw  the 
whole  thing  through  a  ring.  And  her  veil — I  tell 
her  it's  almost  too  fine.  She's  going  to  have  it  fixed 
on  her  head  just  like  a  picture  she  saw  in  Florence. 
Oh,  she's  such  a  strange  child — wouldn't  have  an 
orange-blossom  that  was  more  than  half-budded  and 
insisted  on  white  orchids  for  her  bouquet.  But  I 
must  say  the  effect's  wonderful." 

Mr.  Martin  walked  to  the  station,  but  not  with 
his  usual  brisk  gait.  In  the  train  he  possessed  him- 
self of  a  paper,  but  he  only  glanced  at  the  headlines. 
In  Boston  he  walked  to  his  office.  And  now,  per- 
ceptibly, he  moved  as  if  there  were  weights  on  his 
feet.  At  his  desk  he  sat  silent  a  moment  before  he 
opened  his  mail.  And  after  he  had  read  it,  he  im- 
mediately brushed  it  into  a  careless  heap  and  fell 
into  reverie.  He  sat,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  office 
window — staring. 

That  little  room  of  Phoebe's  had  undergone  many 
transformations  in  its  brief  history.  At  first  came 
the  birds*  nests,  the  dried  grasses,  the  autumn 
leaves,  the  pressed  seaweeds,  strings  of  rose-hips, 
the  maline-bags  full  of  milkweed  seed,  the  various 
"  curiosities  "  which  in  her  little  girlhood  she  had 


224        I>  Phoebe,  Take  Thee,  Toland 

collected  with  so  much  care.  These  were  succeeded 
by  handicraft  of  a  more  delicate  and  feminine  order, 
the  embroidered  litter  which  was  the  result  of  her 
studies  of  the  women's  magazines,  the  passe-partout 
pictures  which  measured  with  unfailing  accuracy  the 
change  in  her  ideas  of  beauty.  Later  came  a  brief 
attack  of  "  hand-painting."  While  in  its  throes,  she 
painted  a  white  china  desk-set  with  forget-me-nots 
and  a  yellow  china  desk-set  with  violets.  Later,  of 
course,  she  rejected  this  for  silver.  There  followed 
on  this,  impedimenta  of  a  more  tender  nature — the 
sentimental  souvenirs  of  vacations,  the  frivolous 
filigree  of  Germans.  Last  of  all  the  little  room 
blossomed  with  the  exotic  loot  of  her  trip  abroad. 
Mr.  Martin  had  watched  it  with  amusement  and 
with  interest.  Much  of  the  detail  had  sunk  out  of 
his  memory,  but  the  girl-development  which  it  indi- 
cated stuck  fast.  He  could  have  written  the  history 
of  Phoebe's  decorative  instinct;  for  she  had  never 
made  one  of  these  sweeping  changes  without  telling 
him  all  about  it  first. 

"Why,  Edward,"  Mrs.  Martin  said,  an  hour 
later,  "  I  thought  you  weren't  coming  back  until 
four.  And  how  tired  you  look!  We'll  have  lunch 
in  a  few  minutes.  Why  don't  you  go  straight  up- 
stairs and  lie  down?  " 

"Oh,  I'm  all  right,"  Mr.  Martin  answered  in 
his  most  offhand  manner.  He  looked  vaguely  about 
him.  The  hall  had  an  unfamiliar  air.  Much  of  the 
furniture  had  been  removed  and  down  the  center 


I,  Phoebe,  Take  Thee,  Toland        225 

sprawled  an  enormous  heap  of  maple-boughs. 
11  There  didn't  seem  to  be  much  work  in  the  office," 
he  went  on  absently,  "  and  so  I  thought  I  might  as 
well  come  out.    Where's  Phoebe?  " 

"At  the  telephone.  The  child  hasn't  left  the 
phone  for  five  minutes  the  last  hour.  It's  perfectly 
astonishing  what  people  will  do  on  a  day  when  you're 
so  busy — calling  her  up  just  to  talk  with  her. 
Phoebe  says  it  seems  as  if  she  would  fly  out  of  her 
skin." 

"  Tell  her  to  hang  up,"  said  Mr.  Martin. 

"  Oh,  Edward,  she  couldn't  do  that.  And  then 
so  many  people  have  been  lovely.  Yellow  flowers 
have  been  coming  all  the  morning.  Mrs.  Sawyer 
brought  over  a  great  bunch  of  those  tiny  yellow 
asters  that  she  always  raises  and  old  Mr.  Wilde  has 
just  left  a  wheelbarrow  full  of  yellow  dahlias." 

She  was  interrupted  by  the  crescendo  peal  of 
Phoebe's  blithe  laughter,  her  impetuous  rush  in  their 
direction.  "  Oh,  mother,  it's  Tug.  He's  still  ask- 
ing if  he  can't  call  this  afternoon.  He  says  he's 
decided  that,  as  long  as  it's  a  yellow  wedding,  the 
ushers  had  better  wear  sunflowers.  Then  he  says 
at  the  reception  they  can  do  a  song-and-dance. 
Why,  Father  Martin — you  darling  angel — when  did 
you  come  back?  " 

Mr.  Martin  made  a  pretense  of  eluding  her,  but 
in  the  end  he  submitted  to  his  daughter's  bear-hug. 

"  Father,  there's  the  peachiest  little  old  Chippen- 
dale mirror  just  come  from  Sylvia.  Come  right  up- 
stairs this  moment  and  see  it." 


226        I,  Phoebe,  Take  Thee,  Toland 

"  Oh,  no,  he  can't  go  upstairs  yet,"  Mrs.  Martin 
protested.  "  Come  into  the  library,  Edward.  I 
want  you  to  see  what  Lora's  done." 

The  library  looked  doubly  alien  to  Mr.  Martin. 
Here,  again,  much  of  the  furniture  had  been  re- 
moved. Maple-boughs  made  golden  Gothic  arches 
over  all  the  windows  and  doors.  Cousin  Lora  was 
perched  on  one  stepladder  at  the  right  of  the  folding- 
doors  and  Ernest  was  perched  on  another  at  the  left. 

"  Hullo,  father,"  said  Ernest,  hammering  vio- 
lently. "  There,  that's  the  third  time  I've  upset 
those  damn — excuse  me,  Cousin  Lora — tacks.  I 
hereby  register  a  vow  never  to  get  married  as  long 
as  I  live.  It's  a  career  in  itself.  Isn't  Cousin  Lora 
a  bird,  father?  Talk  about  your  hanging-gardens  of 
Babylon !  Say,  Cousin  Lora,  that's  great.  See,  I'm 
leaving  all  this  string  here  to  tie  the  chrysanthe- 
mums in.  Now  I'll  beat  it  down  town  in  the  machine 
and  get  some  more  twine  and  tacks  and  do  those 
errands  for  mother,  and,  say,  Phoebe,  what  was 
that  you  wanted  at  the  caterer's?  " 

"  Tell  him  I've  decided  to  have  the  bouillon  cold 
— now  it's  turned  out  to  be  such  a  lovely  warm  day. 
And  tell  him  that  I'd  like  to  know  what's  the  matter 
down  there.  I've  been  trying  to  get  him  on  the 
phone  all  morning.    Now,  father!  " 

Obedient  as  ever  to  that  voice,  Mr.  Martin 
climbed  three  flights  of  stairs  to  the  Playroom.  He 
wandered  from  table  to  table,  staring  fixedly  at  any- 
thing that  met  his  eye.  Phoebe  watched  him  an 
instant.    "  Of  course,  father,  I'm  not  going  to  have 


»  *.  »  '  > 


Talk  about  your  hanging-gardens  of  Babylon 


i 


I,  Phoebe,  Take  Thee,  Toland        227 

anything  so  vulgar  as  a  display  of  wedding-gifts," 
she  started  off  at  almost  a  normal  pace.  "  I  just 
put  them  up  here  so  that  one  or  two  of  the  girls  could 
sneak  off  and  see  them.  Look  at  that  table  just 
covered  with  cut-glass.  There  are  eight  salad- 
bowls.  Oh,  and,  father,  there's  Sylvia's  gift — it's 
the  ninth  looking-glass.  Well,  I've  got  a  line  on 
my  friends'  opinion  of  me.  I  guess  they  all  think 
I'm  the  vainest  thing  that  ever  happened.  And 
bully  for  them !  I've  doped  out  a  series  of  mirrors 
in  my  room  by  which  I  can  see  my  back  hair,  the 
hang  of  my  skirt,  and  my  waist-line  all  at  one  and 
the  same  time." 

For  a  moment  Phoebe  almost  ran  down.  But  she 
pulled  herself  together  and  loosed  another  install- 
ment of  chatter.  Only,  always,  her  misty  eyes,  steal- 
ing to  her  father's  face  and  then  leaping  away, 
seemed  to  try  to  say  the  things  that  her  lips  re- 
pudiated. 

"What  am  I  going  to  do  with  all  those  clocks? 
I  hate  to  think  of  exchanging  wedding-gifts — it 
seems  so  unappreciative  and  calculating ;  but  ten  is 
really  too  many.  And,  father,  wasn't  it  lovely  of 
Mrs.  Raikes  to  send  me  that  lovely  copy  of  Bot- 
ticelli's '  Spring  '  ?  I  guess  she  remembered  I  told 
her  once  she  was  the  spit  of  it.  And,  father  darling, 
I  feel  as  if  I'd  never  really  thanked  you  for  the 
silver.     It's  just  perfectly  beautiful.     If  I'd  ever 

thought There's  the  lunch-bell.     Come  right 

down,  father.  For  I'm  so  hungry  it  seems  as  if  I'd 
faint  and  I'm  afraid  mother  will There's  the 


228        I,  Phoebe,  Take  Thee,  Toland 

telephone.  Mother,  please  answer  it,  and  if  it's 
Tug,  tell  him  he  cannot  come  over  to  see  me. 
Mother,  you  must  lie  down  after  dinner  or  you'll 
certainly  go  to  pieces." 

But  Mrs.  Martin  did  not  lie  down.  They  all 
dawdled  unaccountably  at  the  table,  held  by  Mr. 
Martin's  extraordinary  flow  of  spirits.  Mr.  Mar- 
tin, it  seems,  had  snatched  a  bite  in  Boston.  He 
talked  while  the  others  ate,  talked  while  the  others 
laughed,  talked  until 

"  Well,  what  are  we  thinking  of?  "  Mrs.  Martin 
asked  in  a  panicky  tone.  "  Has  it  occurred  to  any 
of  you  that  there's  a  wedding  in  this  family  at  eight 
o'clock  to-night?  Oh,  I'm  so  glad,"  she  said,  ac- 
companying Cousin  Lora  to  the  library,  "  that  Ed- 
ward's so  happy.  I'd  expected  he'd  be  awfully  blue 
to-day.  Well,  Lora,  there's  no  use  in  talking,  a 
father  doesn't  feel  these  things  the  way  a  mother 
does." 

In  the  afternoon  the  work  grew  a  little  more 
silent,  a  little  more  concentrated.  Mrs.  Martin 
shuttled  from  room  to  room,  performing  a  hundred 
disconnected  tasks.  Cousin  Lora  and  Ernest  re- 
turned to  their  work  with  the  maple-boughs.  Par- 
lor, library,  and  hall  were  finished.  Now  they  were 
working  on  the  dining-room.  Phoebe  had  brought 
the  great  florist  boxes  up  from  the  cellar.  She  was 
filling  vases  and  jardinieres  with  chrysanthemums. 
The  great,  shock-headed  blossoms  emerged,  as 
prophesied,  miraculously  dewy  and  fresh,  the  satiny 
petals  firm  and  close.     Mr.   Martin,   constituting 


I,  Phoebe,  Take  Thee,  Toland        229 

himself  doorman  and  telephone-boy,  brought  to 
Phoebe  a  succession  of  express-packages,  called  her 
to  this  and  that  peremptory  message  on  the  tele- 
phone. 

Into  all  this  absorption  suddenly  burst  Flora. 
"  Miss  Phoebe,  dey's  a  tramp  in  the  kitching  won't 
go  way,  nohow  Ah  talks  to  him.  Kase  he  says  he 
wanster  see  the  bride. " 

"  A  tramp !  "  ejaculated  Phoebe.  "  To  see  me ! 
For  goodness'  sake!  I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing ! 
Well,  of  course  I  can't  see  him.  Yes,  I  will,  too. 
I  won't  refuse  any  request  on  my  wedding-day. 
Gracious,  doesn't  it  sound  mysterious  and  ro- 
mantic? " 

Her  father  listened  to  her  footsteps  for  a  per- 
turbed instant  before  it  occurred  to  him  to  follow. 
From  the  hall  he  heard  her  civil,  "  Good-afternoon, 

is  there  anything  I  can  do Oh,  Tug  Warbur- 

ton,  you  ridiculous "     Then  the  peals  of  her 

rippling  mirth. 

Tug  wore  a  disguise  so  complicated  that  it  should 
have  caused  his  immediate  arrest  in  any  well-gov- 
erned city.  His  statement  that  his  make-up  had 
taken  an  hour  gained  instant  credence.  Of  the  de- 
tails a  black  eye  and  a  painful  bruise  on  his  cheek 
were  perhaps  the  most  noticeable. 

"  Go  home  at  once,"  Phoebe  said  severely  after 
she  had  stopped  laughing.  "  It's  something  dread- 
ful your  being  here.  I  don't  know  why  it  is,  but 
it  is!  Mother'll  probably  call  the  wedding  off,  and 
I  shan't  blame  her.    I  never  felt  so  embarrassed  in 


230        I,  Phoebe,  Take  Thee,  Toland 

my  life.  I  don't  know  why,  but  I  do.  There, 
there's  Madame  Lily.  I've  got  to  go  now.  Father, 
will  you  kindly  order  my  future  husband  to  leave 
this  house?  " 

"  Sit  down,  dad-in-law,"  said  Tug  comfortably 
after  Phoebe  had  left,  u  and  have  a  smoke."  He 
reached  into  a  sagging  pocket  for  pipes,  matches, 
and  tobacco.  "  Isn't  this  hell?  I  give  you  my  word 
of  honor  if  I  come  out  of  it  alive  I  shall  never  get 
married  again  as  long  as  I  live.  I  don't  suppose, 
though,  you're  any  more  comfortable  than  I." 

"  I  suppose  there  never  was  a  man  yet  who  didn't 
just  naturally  hate  a  wedding,"  said  Mr.  Martin. 
"  No,  I  can't  say  that  I'm  exactly  comfortable." 

"  Lord,  it  must  be  fierce  for  you,"  Tug  admitted. 
"  Just  think  of  giving  up  a  girl  like  Phoebe.  I  don't 
know  exactly  what  that  means." 

Mr.  Martin  smiled.  "  I  reckon  you  don't,  Tug," 
he  agreed  genially.  He  stopped  as  if  he  were  not 
going  to  speak  again  and  there  was  an  interval  of 
silence,  disturbed  only  by  twin  puffs.  Then  Mr. 
Martin  broke  it.  His  words  seemed  to  come  with 
an  effort.  "  I  guess  you  don't,  Tug,"  he  repeated, 
"  I  guess  you  don't.  And  you  won't  know  until  you 
come  to  give  your  own  daughter  away.     It  isn't 

exactly  that  you It's  more  that  you This 

is  what  I  mean.  I  guess  every  man  has  done  some 
things  in  the  course  of  his  life  that  he  doesn't  like 
to  look  back  on." 

He  stopped.  Tug  gave  a  quick,  confirming,  un- 
derstanding nod. 


I,  Phoebe,  Take  Thee,  Toland        231 

"  I  suppose  I  haven't  done  any  more  than  the  next 
fellow,"  Mr.  Martin  went  on  lightly,  "  and  I've  al- 
ways said  to  myself  that  I  was  ready  to  stand  the 
gaff.     I  meant  of  course  that  I  was  ready  to  stand 

it  myself.    But "    Mr.  Martin  broke  off,  smiling 

again.  "  What  I'm  saying  now  is  that  if  the  Fates 
— or  whatever  you  call  those  fellows  who  control 

human  destiny — hit  me  through  Phoebe "     Mr. 

Martin  paused.  "  Well,  I  guess  I'm  ready  to 
renege.    Now,  you  Tug,  you  remember  that !  " 

Mr.  Martin's  tone  was  still  jocular,  but  by  this 
time  his  smile  had  grown  a  little  fixed.  Tug's 
answering,  "  Sure,  dad-in-law,  I'll  remember  that," 
smoothed  it  out  again.  Tug's  tone  had  quite  the 
right  ring  of  practicality,  the  frank,  everyday  accept- 
ance of  an  obvious,  everyday  situation. 

When  Tug  left,  the  tension  of  the  house  tight- 
ened. From  upstairs,  Mrs.  Martin,  helplessly 
coiled  in  hot  towels  by  Madame  Lily's  skilful  hands, 
was  calling  down  smothered  advice,  admonition,  sug- 
gestion. Cousin  Lora  was  bowing  the  yellow  ribbons 
that  tied  bunches  of  asters  and  dahlias  among  the 
flaming  maple  leaves.  Phoebe  was  still  fussing  with 
the  chrysanthemums,  turning  a  flower-head  here,  cut- 
ting a  leaf  there,  moving  vases  yonder.  Flora  and 
Mary  were  cleaning  the  litter  from  the  hall  and 
dining-room.  Ernest  was  going  over  the  library 
floor  with  a  carpet-sweeper.  A  little  later,  Phoebe 
slipped  upstairs,  then  Lora,  then  Ernest.  Every 
faucet  in  the  house  seemed  to  be  running.  Dusk 
came,   the  lights  flared,   and  suddenly  Flora   was 


232        I,  Phoebe,  Take  Thee,  Toland 

breaking  Mr.  Martin's  lonely  vigil  with  the  bell.  It 
was  dinner,  and  the  three  women — all  in  kimonos, 
and  Mrs.  Martin  with  an  unaccustomed  elegance  of 
coiffure — were  filing  down  the  stairs. 

After  their  short  supper  the  tension  changed  to 
fever-heat  excitement.  The  bell  rang.  Madame 
Riley  appeared.  The  women  disappeared  upstairs. 
Ernest  and  his  father  bathed  and  dressed.  Ernest 
embarked  on  his  last  errand  in  the  auto.  Mr.  Mar- 
tin lingered  in  his  room.  Cries  of  admiration  came 
to  him  from  the  spare  chamber.  "  Oh,  I  like  that," 
in  Cousin  Lora's  voice.  "  I  think  it  is  perfectly 
beautiful,"  in  Mrs.  Martin's  voice.  Curiously 
enough,  her  tone  had  Phoebe's  note  of  soaring  en- 
thusiasm. Then,  "  Just  a  little  fuller  there,  Madame 
Riley,"  in  Phoebe's  voice. 

Mr.  Martin  wandered  downstairs  into  the  library 
— into  the  stark  yellow-and-cherry  glare  of  the 
maple-boughs.  He  wandered  absently  about  for  a 
moment.  Then  he  went  to  the  window  and  stood 
gazing  outside.     His  look  fixed  on  something  there. 

Mr.  Martin  had  given  Phoebe  all  the  furniture 
in  that  little  room.  On  her  birthday,  Phoebe  al- 
ways went  into  Boston  to  lunch  with  him  at  the 
Touraine.  Afterwards  they  would  pick  out  the 
birthday  gift  together.  One  year,  it  was  the  fragile 
little  oak  desk.  The  next,  it  was  the  little  oak 
dressing-table;  Phoebe  had  chosen  that  particular 
one  because  the  mirror  was  shaped  like  a  heart. 
Next  it  was  the  bookcase  in  which  the  green-and- 


I,  Phoebe,  Take  Thee,  Toland        233 

gold  Alcott  books  still  held  the  most  honored  place. 
Ten  or  twelve  years  they  had  been  doing  this:  from 
the  time  when  Phoebe  was  a  long-legged,  big-eyed, 
frisking  colt  of  a  thing,  until  suddenly  she  curved 
and  colored  into  a  blooming  creature  whose  vivacity 
arrested  every  passing  glance.  It  seemed  only  a 
year  or  two — and  now 

From  upstairs  came  staccato  cries,  came  rustlings, 
silken,  satiny,  lacy.  Mr.  Martin  went  out  into  the 
hall.  Into  the  glare  of  the  chandelier  appeared  first 
Cousin  Lora  in  her  soft  gray  and  creamy  lace,  tug- 
ging on  a  glove;  appeared  second  Mrs.  Martin  in 
shimmery  lilac  that  sparkled  with  silver,  carefully 
lifting  her  skirt;  appeared  next — Phoebe. 

Literally  appeared — for  Phoebe  seemed  to  soar, 
tenuous,  diaphanous,  mystic,  like  some  strange  spirit 
of  this  strange  day.  Phoebe's  face  was  a  white  blur. 
Phoebe's  hair  was  a  golden  mist.  Phoebe's  gown 
floated  a  web.  Phoebe's  veil  fluttered  a  gossamer. 
Phoebe's  hands  dripped  cascades  of  snowy  butterfly- 
shaped  flowers.  And,  topping  it  all,  there  flared 
away  from  her  curls  a  structure  that  was  aureole 
and  halo  both — of  star-dust,  wave-spume,  and  dew. 

Tailing  the  procession  came  Madame  Riley  carry- 
ing the  rest  of  Phoebe's  gown,  an  armful  of  white 
fire. 

"  I'm  frightened,  father  dear,"  Phoebe  said  in  a 
faint,  far-away  voice.  "  I'm  afraid  I'm  going  to 
break  down.  I  feel  so  queer.  My  head  whirls  if  I 
try  to  think.    I've  read  the  ceremony  over  and  over 


234        I)  Phoebe,  Take  Thee,  Toland 

again,  and  yet  I  can't  remember  anything  about  it 


now." 


Mr.  Martin  patted  the  little,  damp,  trembling 
hand.  "  You're  all  right,  Phoebe,"  he  said  in  a 
matter-of-fact  tone.  "  It  will  come  back  to  you  the 
moment  you  hear  the  first  words." 

"  I'm  afraid  Tug  will  forget  the  license  or  the 
ring  or  the  check,"  said  Phoebe. 

"  I've  just  called  Chet  Damon  up.  He  says  he's 
just  seen  to  them  himself,"  said  Mr.  Martin. 

"  I'm  afraid  something  will  happen  to  the  girls," 
said  Phoebe. 

"  I've  just  called  them  up.  They  say  that  they're 
all  right  and  crazy  for  the  show  to  begin,"  said 
Mr.  Martin. 

"  I'm  afraid  the  carriage  will  be  late,"  said 
Phoebe. 

"  I've  just  called  O'Leary  up.  They'll  be  here 
at  exactly  twenty  minutes  to  eight,"  said  Mr.  Martin. 

"  I'm  afraid  I  won't  remember  to  take  my  car- 
riage-shoes off,"  said  Phoebe. 

"  I'll  remind  you,"  said  Mr.  Martin. 

"  It's  twenty-five  minutes  of,"  said  Phoebe.  "  Oh, 
father,  there's  the  telephone.  Do  you  think  any- 
thing has  happened?  " 

"  It's  only  Tug,"  answered  Mr.  Martin  in  an 
instant.  "  He  says,  '  Tell  Phoebe  I'm  wyting  at 
the  church.'     There,  there's  the  carriage  now." 

At  the  church  Cousin  Lora  disappeared  on 
Ernest's  arm.     Mrs.  Martin,  whispering  some  last 


I,  Phoebe,  Take  Thee,  Toland        235 

frenzied  injunctions,  was  borne  away  by  Jake  Peb- 
worth.  One  instant  they  were  a  little  deserted, 
terror-stricken  group;  the  next  the  bridesmaids,  like 
great  white-and-yellow  angels,  were  fluttering  about 
them.  Another  chattering  wait  and  the  ushers  were 
forming  into  pairs,  the  bridesmaids  were  falling  into 
line,  Sylvia  Gordon  had  placed  herself  just  in  front, 
Phoebe  had  grasped  her  father's  arm,  and 

"  Take  off  your  carriage  shoes,  Phoebe,"  Mr. 
Martin  said. 

A  crash  of  music  came  from  the  organ.  The 
black  and  gray  lines  of  ushers  started.  The  white 
and  yellow  lines  of  bridesmaids  started.  Sylvia 
started.  Phoebe  started.  Mr.  Martin  was  carried 
on  by  the  wave.  Under  the  awning  he  went,  and 
up  the  church  steps  and  into  the  long  alley  of  .golden 
maple-boughs  flaring  in  arches  overhead,  past  the 
yellow  flowers,  the  yellow  leaves,  the  yellow  ribbons 
marking  pews  that  surged  with  solemn  figures, 
straight  on  past  Bertha's  streaming  face,  straight 
on  to  where  the  altar  blazed  white  and  yellow  and 
gold,  to  where  Mr.  Cameron  stood  calm,  clean-cut, 
benign,  one  finger  in  a  book,  to  where  Tug  and 
Chet  Damon,  as  pale  as  their  white  violet  bouton- 
nieres,  awaited  them,  straight  on  through  the  music, 
straight  on  through  the  silence,  straight  on  through 
deep-voiced  question  and  fluttering  response,  straight 
on  to: 

"  Who  giveth  this  woman  to  be  married  to  this 
man?" 


236        I,  Phoebe,  Take  Thee,  Toland 

The  first  thing  that  ever  went  into  the  little  room 
was  that  tiny  rope-seated  chair.  Mr.  Martin  had 
bought  it  for  Phoebe  himself  when  she  was  only 
four.  He  had  seen  it  in  passing  at  a  Maywood 
auction,  had  secured  it  immediately.  Phoebe's  first 
Lar,  it  was  for  a  long  time  the  mostly  dearly  prized. 
It  became  an  embarrassment  in  fact,  for  thereafter 
she  would  use  no  other.  He^could  see  even  now  the 
dimpled,  frizzly -haired  girl-thing,  mouth  set  in  par- 
allel lines  of  persistence,  dragging  it  from  room  to 
room,  or  with  many  slips  and  bumps,  tugging  it  up 
and  down  stairs.  He  could  hear  her  screams  of  rage 
if  the  strenuous  Ernest  dared  to  occupy  it  even  for 
an  instant.  Often  when  he  came  home  at  night, 
Phoebe  would  be  sitting  in  it  before  the  fire,  exam- 
ining a  picture-book.  "  Phoebe,  very  good  girl" 
she  would  greet  him  at  these  times,  an  immense  de- 
gree of  self-approval  in  her  manner — her  mother 
usually  disagreed  with  this  dictum — "  Phoebe,  read 
the  pitty  book,  all-aloney."  Why,  that  was  nearly 
twenty  years  ago.     It  only  seemed 

It  was  much  gayer  after  that.  Mrs.  Martin, 
constantly  wiping  away  what  promised  to  be  a  never- 
ending  stream  of  tears,  joined  them.  Somehow 
they  got  home,  carriage-load  after  carriage-load. 
Soon  they  were  all  in  the  library  together,  Bertha 
on  one  side  of  him  and  Phoebe  on  the  other — the 
same  Phoebe,  although  she  was  now  Phoebe  War- 
burton.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Warburton  were  there,  and 
Tug — the  same  Tug,  although  he  was  now  Phoebe's 


I,  Phoebe,  Take  Thee,  Toland        237 

husband.  Somehow,  while  the  women  were  all  talk- 
ing and  laughing  at  their  highest  speed,  they  were  all 
weeping  too.  Phoebe's  hand  fumbled  its  way  to  her 
father's,  nestled  there,  stayed. 

Presently  all  Maywood  was  in  the  house.  It  filed 
past  their  group,  saying  the  same  things  over  and 
over  again.  "  Well,  Mrs.  Warburton,  you  looked 
perfectly  beautiful.  Am  I  the  first  one  to  call  you 
Mrs.  Warburton?  Your  gown  is  simply  wonderful, 
and  as  for  that  arrangement  of  the  veil,  it's  posi- 
tively the  swellest  thing  I  ever  saw.  Where  did  you 
get  the  idea?  " — "  Didn't  the  church  look  lovely?  I 
couldn't  hear  Tug  at  all,  but  you  were  as  clear  as 
a  bell,  Mrs.  Toland  Warburton.  Doesn't  that 
sound  queer,  Phoebe?  How  original  to  have  noth- 
ing but  autumn  leaves  and  yellow  flowers !  I  never 
saw  such  big  chrissies !  " — "  How  lovely  the  brides- 
maids look,  Mrs.  Warburton?  Doesn't  it  seem 
strange  to  call  you  Mrs.  Warburton  ?  Isn't  the  maid 
of  honor  a  beauty?  What  did  you  say  her  name 
was?     Gordon?      Sylvia   Gordon.     Those   golden 

baskets  filled  with  golden  yellow  orchids  were " 

— "  Oh,  the  earrings  were  your  gift  to  them,  Mrs. 
Warburton.  Just  think,  you're  Phoebe  Warburton 
now!  Uncut  amber,  did  you  say?  And  I  love  their 
little  gold  caps!" — "How  charming  the  house 
looks!  Who  did  the  decorations?  Phoebe,  your 
gown  is  positively  eatable !  Just  think,  Mr.  Martin, 
she  isn't  Phoebe  Martin  any  longer!" — "I  never 
saw  your  mother  looking  so  stunning!" — "What 
did  Tug  give  the  ushers?  " — "  Isn't  Mrs.  Warbur- 


238        I,  Phoebe,  Take  Thee,  Toland 

ton  simply  gorgeous  in  that  green-and-gold  ?  It's 
just  the  color  of  an  emerald!" — "  Show  us  your 
ring,  Phoebe.  Isn't  it  pretty!  Well,  you've  lost 
your  little  daughter,  Mr.  Martin!  " — "Well,  Mrs. 
Phoebe  Warburton,  I  thought  your  father  looked 
as  stunning  as  anybody,  to-night.  Am  I  the  first  to 
call  you  Mrs.  Warburton?  " 

There  were  leagues  and  aeons  of  this.  Then, 
somehow,  they  were  all  seated  at  little  tables.  Mr. 
Martin  did  not  eat  anything.  He  said  that  he  had 
had  a  very  hearty  supper. 

A  long  eternity  of  this,  and  then  everybody  had 
stopped  eating,  was  waiting  with  a  curious  air  of 
expectancy.  Ernest  was  circulating  through  the 
crowd,  dispensing  things  from  a  basket.  All  the 
bridesmaids  had  disappeared.  And — where  was 
Phoebe? 

Mr.  Martin  went  quietly  upstairs.  From  the 
spare  room  came  a  babble  of  girl  voices  that  sounded 
every  note  of  feminine  enthusiasm.  Quiet  as  Mr. 
Martin  had  been,  he  was  not  quiet  enough.  The 
door  of  the  spare  room  flashed  open,  banged  shut — 
and  Phoebe  was  in  her  father's  arms.  She  had 
taken  off  her  wedding  gown.  Her  hair  hung  in  a 
feathery  amber  torrent  to  her  waist.  Out  of  the 
short  sleeves  of  her  combing-jacket  came  her  little, 
slim,  virginal  arms,  from  its  open  collar  came  her 
little,  slender  virginal  neck. 

Phoebe's  hands  flew  about  her  father's  neck. 
Her  head  went  down  on  his  shoulder.     Phoebe's 


I,  Phoebe,  Take  Thee,  Toland        239 

words  came  between  great  gasping  breaths  and 
great  strangling  sobs. 

"  Father,  darling — I  don't  see — how  I'm  going 
— to  leave  you — it  seems  dreadful  now  it's  so — near 
— how  could  I  ever  get  married — when — you've 
been  so  good  to  me — and  I  love  you — so — I  hope 
I've  been  a — good  daughter — to  you — I  can  think 
of  so  many — things — that  I  ought  not — to  have 
done — and  now — I  can  never  make  it  up — never — 
I  don't  want — to  leave  you — I'm  afraid — what  shall 

I  do — oh,   father "     Phoebe's  clasp   tightened 

about  her  father's  neck. 

But  Mr.  Martin  gently  unwound  her  arms. 
"  Well !  well !  well !  well!  "  he  was  saying  in  a  steady 
tone  of  jocularity.  "  I  should  think  you  were  really 
going  away.  Instead  of  moving  a  little  way  down 
the  street.  Everything's  all  right,  Phoebe.  You've 
been  a  perfectly  good  daughter,  the  best  I 
ever  had.  Now  you  run  back  and  get  into  your 
clothes  and  put  a  little  powder  on  your  nose  and — 
it  will  worry  your  mother." 

"  Oh,  father!  "  Phoebe  sobbed.  "  Oh,  father!  " 
and  again,  "  Oh,  father!"  But  she  stopped  and 
stifled  her  sobs.  Then  she  pulled  herself  away,  ran 
back,  kissed  him  again,  disappeared  into  the  spare 
room. 

Mr.  Martin  went  downstairs.  Somebody  put 
something  into  his  hand.  He  looked  at  it  stupidly. 
It  was  a  tissue-paper  package  of  confetti.  After  a 
while,  the  bridesmaids  came  filing  down.  Another 
pause  and  Mrs.  Martin  went  up  to  return  weeping. 


240        I,  Phoebe,  Take  Thee,  Toland 

Another  long  wait  and  Phoebe  herself  came  flying 
downstairs,  slender  and  trim  in  a  brown  velvet  suit, 
a  great  yellow  chrysanthemum  bobbing  at  her  waist. 
She  still  carried  the  loosened  bunch  of  her  wedding- 
flowers,  and  suddenly  they  flew  from  her  hands  over 
the  bannister.  They  were  met  by  a  shower  of  con- 
fetti. The  Warburton  limousine,  which  had  arrived 
a  few  minutes  before  and  had  been  immediately 
loaded  with  old  shoes  and  wreathed  with  yellow 
bunting,  moved  down  the  street.  A  strange  motor 
took  its  place  in  the  midst  of  shrieks  of  disappoint- 
ment. 

Phoebe  stopped  to  kiss  her  mother,  stopped  to 
kiss  Ernest.  But  ever  her  tear-wet  gaze  went  to 
Mr.  Martin.  Phoebe  flew  down  the  walk  through 
successive  clouds  of  confetti,  and  leaped  into  the 
tonneau,  where  Tug  suddenly  appeared  like  an  appa- 
rition. But  even  in  her  flight,  Phoebe's  head  turned 
over  her  shoulder;  her  look  stayed  with  her  father. 
Tug's  hand  pulled  up  the  window  in  the  motor- 
door.  The  engine  snorted.  The  wheels  crunched. 
Phoebe's  white  face  came  close  to  the  window  pane. 
Her  eyes  met  her  father's  in  a  last  pale,  quivery 
smile. 

Mr.  Martin  smiled  too. 

Maywood  people  said  that  Phoebe  Martin's  wed- 
ding was  the  prettiest  they  had  ever  seen — and  the 
gayest.  "  And  after  the  bridal  pair  had  gone," 
they  added,  "  you  ought  to  have  seen  the  way  Mr. 
Martin  took  hold  and  just  made  things  hum."  Cer- 
tainly Mr.  Martin  worked.     He  started  the  danc- 


I,  Phoebe,  Take  Thee,  Toland        241 

ing  with  Sylvia  Gordon.  He  danced  every  dance 
with  a  different  girl. 

"  Well,  I  never  was  so  tired  in  my  born  days," 
said  Mrs.  Martin  as  they  started  upstairs  long  after 
midnight.  "  But  it  certainly  has  repaid  all  our 
work;  for  it  was  a  beautiful  wedding.  Phoebe  said 
that  everything  had  been  perfect.  She  whispered 
in  my  ear,  father,  that  they  were  going  south — she 
said  she'd  write  every  spare  minute.  Well,  I  sup- 
pose I'll  be  rested  in  a  day  or  two,  but  it  doesn't 
seem  as  if  I  ever  could."  She  stopped  for  breath 
at  the  head  of  the  stairs.  "  I  never  saw  anything 
like  your  energy,  Edward,  dancing  with  all  those 
girls.  Why,  what  are  you  doing  now,  father? 
What  are  you  doing?  " 

For  Mr.  Martin  had  stopped  in  front  of  Phoebe's 
bare,  gleaming,  dead,  little  room,  had  shut  the  door, 
had  locked  it.  As  he  spoke,  he  put  the  key  in  his 
pocket. 

"  I  guess  I  don't  want  to  see  that  door  standing 
open  for  one  while,"  said  Mr.  Martin. 


CHAPTER  IX 

ERNEST  AND  THE  CONSPIRATORS 

"OELOVED  Husband!  "— this  was  Phoebe's 
JLJ  favorite  form  of  apostrophe  to  Tug,  al- 
though argumentative  crises  sometimes  changed  it 
to  Domestic  Tyrant!  or  Household  Ogre! — "  have 
you  noticed  how  furiously  Pauline  Marr  is  flirting 
with  Ern?" 

u  Estimable  Wife !  "  Tug  invariably  answered 
Phoebe  in  kind,  although  argumentative  crises  some- 
times transformed  this  complimentary  address  to 
Fireside  Vampire!  or  Matrimonial  Encumbrance! 
"  I  have  not  noticed  that  Pauline  was  flirting  with 
Ern.  But  I  saw  at  once  and  without  the  aid  of  a 
microscope  the  case  that  Frederick  Wright  has  de- 
veloped on  Sylvia. " 

"  Oh,  that's  not  a  case!"  Phoebe  waved' this 
evidence  lightly  away.  "  Frederick's  only  doing  the 
polite  thing  to  our  guest.  Pauline  is  rather  sicken- 
ing though.  She's  eight  years  older  than  Ern  if 
she's  a  day.  But  then  Pauline  always  did  rob  the 
cradle.  She's  an  awfully  selfish,  heartless  thing. 
Do  you  remember  the  summer  that  Frederick  and 
Pauline  and  I  were  staying  with  your  mother  at 
Marblehead  how  she  nearly  broke  that  poor  prep, 
kid's  heart?     I  didn't  mind  that  so  much,  although 

242 


Ernest  and  the  Conspirators  243 

I  didn't  think  it  was  fair.  But  it  makes  a  difference 
when  it's  your  own  brother.  Ern's  such  a  cracker- 
jack  too.  Why,  when  Sylvia  and  Nancy  came,  he 
took  the  car  way  into  Boston  to  save  them  that 
part  of  the  trip  because  Sylvia  wrote  that  Nancy  was 
always  train-sick.  And  when  they  got  out  here,  he 
bought  Nancy  four  dolls  in  the  five-cent  store — oh, 
the  most  dreadful-looking  things.  Nancy's  crazy 
about  them,  of  course.  She's  named  them  after  the 
four  people  in  the  machine — only  she  pronounces 
them  Thilvia  and  Pworline,  and  Fweddywick  and 
Ernesth."  Running  against  a  blank  wall  in  her  own 
conversation,  Phoebe  reverted  to  her  husband's  lead. 
"  It  would  be  awfully  nice  if  '  Fweddywick '  would 
fall  in  love  with  Sylvia.  He's  going  to  make  barrels 
of  money  sometime.  It's  in  him.  And  Sylvia's 
always  had  such  a  dreadful  struggle.  She's  so  un- 
selfish, too.  The  care  of  Nancy  this  summer  is 
typical." 

"  You  don't  mean  that  she's  going  to  have  her  all 
summer  long." 

"  It  looks  that  way.  Marion  is  in  a  pretty  dread- 
ful condition,  I  gather.  The  other  two  children  are 
boarding.  There  was  nobody  to  take  Nancy  but 
Sylvia.  Not  that  Sylvia  wasn't  willing  and  crazy 
to  do  it.  She  just  adores  Nancy.  Who  could  help 
it?    Isn't  she  a  darling  kid?  " 

Tug's  face  expanded  in  an  agreeing  grin.  He 
was  still  red  and  flushed  from  a  good-night  frolic 
with  Nancy.  Nancy  had  developed  the  nervous 
strength  that  even   quiet  children   display  at  bed- 


244  Ernest  and  the  Conspirators 

time.  Tug  announced  that  he  had  broken  three 
ribs  and  his  collar-bone. 

"  I  shall  keep  them  here  just  as  long  as  I  can," 
Phoebe  went  on.  "  I  shall  have  to  think  up  some 
reason  why  she's  helping  me  by  staying.  Sylvia's 
such  an  independent  thing.  Sometimes  I  could  shake 
her.  She's  so  afraid  that  she'll  take  the  bread  of 
charity!  I've  impressed  it  on  her  though  that  she 
must  stay  here  while  we  go  away.  Just  think,  this 
is  the  first  summer  that  she  hasn't  worked  since  she 
went  to  college.  Oh,  Sylvia  is  such  a  wonder.  I 
always  feel  like  a  spoiled,  petted,  pampered  Sybarite 
beside  her." 

"  Yes,  she's  a  bully  girl,"  Tug  said.  "  You  know 
I've  always  been  strong  for  Sylvia.  She  saw  me 
through  that  time  you  went  to  New  York.  She  was 
a  corker.  Never  said  a  word  that  seemed  to  hint 
at  the  situation.  Just  kept  me  informed,  from  day 
to  day,  what  you  were  writing.  I'd  do  an  awful  lot 
for  Sylvia.  I'm  glad  we  have  a  house  of  our  own 
to  invite  her  and  Nancy  too.  You  hear  those  words, 
Phoebe  Warburton  (nee  Martin).  Our  own  home! 
Think  of  it!" 

Phoebe  swept  the  living-room  with  the  veiled 
vagueness  of  her  preoccupied  glance.  Aunt  Mary's 
fine  mahogany,  the  few  rugs  and  pictures,  the  many 
books  and  flowers,  taken  with  the  long  windows,  the 
beautiful  wainscoting,  the  generous  fireplace,  the 
careful  restorations  in  the  way  of  paint  and  paper, 
had  turned  the  battered,  tattered  old  Durland  house 
into  a  home.     Moreover,  it  had  that  precious  qual- 


Ernest  and  the  Conspirators  245 

ity — the  fourth  dimension  of  decoration — the  look 
of  use-and-wont.  "  I  must  see  Jake  Pebworth  about 
that  Carpaccio,"  Phoebe  murmured  absently.  "  I 
don't  know  whether  to  mat  it  or  to  frame  it  close." 
Then  the  veil  lifted.  "  Tug,"  she  went  on  crisply, 
"  what's  your  tip  on  this  situation?  Do  you  think 
Ern's  sticked  on  Pauline?  " 

"  Lord,  I  don't  know,"  said  Tug.  "  It  isn't  a 
thing  that  a  man  mentions  naturally.  All  Ern  talks 
about  at  present  is  that  tramp-trip  abroad  that  he 
and  Sandy  Williston  and  Art  Turner  are  going  to 
take  next  summer.  I  don't  believe  he's  what  you 
call  in  love.  He  wouldn't  be  thinking  of  going 
abroad  if  he  was.  Why,  when  I  began  to  care  about 
you,  I  wanted  to  get  to  work  at  once,  so  that  we'd 
be  in  a  position  to  marry.  In  fact,  Mrs.  Toland 
Warburton  (nee  Martin),  I  put  my  mother  up  to 
taking  you  abroad  that  time  so  that  I  could  go  West 
to  learn  the  business  from  the  ground  up.  Then 
again,  Ern's  only  been  home  two  weeks." 

"  Well,  don't  you  underrate  Pauline  Marr,  Mr. 
Toland  Martin  (nee  Warburton)."  Phoebe's  tone 
was  grim,  but  there  was  a  note  of  unwilling 
admiration  in  it.  "  She  can  do  more  execution  in 
two  weeks  than  most  girls  can  do  in  two  months." 

Mrs.  Martin  was  crocheting.  Mr.  Martin  was 
reading.  They  sat  alone  in  the  front  parlor — that 
room  which,  after  several  years,  still  glared  with 
the  newness  of  Phoebe's  first  revolution  in  household 
art. 


246  Ernest  and  the  Conspirators 

"  Edward,"  Mrs.  Martin  said,  "  have  you  no- 
ticed how  Pauline  is  making  up  to  Ernie?  "  It  was 
three  days  later.  Mrs.  Martin  was  not  an  instant 
slower  than  her  daughter  in  perception.  In  fact,  if 
Ernest  entered  into  the  matter,  she  was  much 
quicker.  But  just  as  she  confided  at  once  in  Mr. 
Martin  everything  that  concerned  Phoebe,  she  kept 
from  him  at  first  anything  that  affected  Ernest. 

"  Can't  say  I  have,"  Mr.  Martin  replied  with  a 
strong  accent  of  the  initial  indifference  which  he 
always  brought  to  household  discussion.  "  But  I 
did  notice  what  a  shine  Frederick  took  to  Sylvia. 
He  got  it  the  moment  he  looked  at  her." 

"  Well,  Frederick  would  certainly  be  a  good 
match  for  Sylvia."  Mrs.  Martin  considered  this 
with  the  gravity  which  her  years  accorded  any  matri- 
monial proposition.  "Poor  child!  She  certainly 
has  had  a  hard  time !  It  seems  to  me  that  if  I  had 
died  and  Phoebe  had  been  through  such  a  struggle 
to  get  an  education,  I  would  never  rest  easy  in  my 
grave.  But,  Edward,  I'm  sort  of — put-out — with 
Pauline  for  being  so  foolish  about  Ernie.  Why, 
she  must  be  thirty  if  she's  a  day." 

"  Good  Lord,  no,  Bertha,"  Mr.  Martin  pro- 
tested. "  She  can't  be  more  than  twenty-five  or  -six. 
And  a  mighty  pleasant  girl,  I  call  her,"  he  added 
valiantly. 

The  placidity  of  Mrs.  Martin's  usual  expression 
was  torn  by  conflicting  forces.  "  Of  course  you  do. 
Any  man  would.  She's  just  about  good  enough  for 
men!"  she  concluded  with  what  for  her  was  the 


Ernest  and  the  Conspirators  247 

upper  pinnacle  of  sarcasm.  "  But  as  for  her  age, 
I  can  prove  it  to  you.  She  went  to  boarding-school 
with  Edith  Semple.  Edith  was  only  fifteen  when 
she  entered  and  young  at  that.  They  had  four  years 
in  school  together.  Three  years  later  Edith  was 
married  and  Pauline  was  bridesmaid.  Edith's  been 
married  seven  years.  That  makes  Edith  twenty- 
nine.  Then  again,"  Mrs.  Martin  went  on  relent- 
lessly, "  Pauline  and  Maudie  Norwall  were  the 
closest  friends.  They  went  to  Europe  together. 
Now  Maudie  was  twenty-five  when " 

Mr.  Martin  made  a  gesture  of  despair. 

u  Well,  anyway,  I  can  prove  five  different  ways 
that  she's  thirty,  and  I  don't  want  her  flirting  with 
Ernie." 

"  Well,  mother,"  Mr.  Martin's  voice  balanced 
perfectly  between  the  indifference  of  the  man  who 
sees  the  mole-hill  in  another's  mountain  and  the 
affection  of  the  husband  who  wants  to  sympathize, 
41  why  do  you  let  such  a  little  thing  worry  you?  It 
won't  do  Ernest  any  harm." 

"  Well,  I  declare !  "  There  was  despair  in  Mrs. 
Martin's  exclamation.  "  Suppose  he  gets  engaged 
to  her." 

14  Ernest  wouldn't  be  fool  enough  to  ask  a  woman 
of  thirty  to  marry  him." 

"  A  boy  is  fool  enough  for  anything — or  a  man 
either.  And  you  yourself  just  said  she  didn't  look 
more  than  twenty-six.  If  she  looks  only  twenty-six 
to  you,  you  may  be  quite  sure  that  she  looks  only 
eighteen  to  Ernie." 


248  Ernest  and  the  Conspirators 

Mr.  Martin  said  nothing.  But  the  expression  of 
his  face  was  still  that  of  the  man  who  sees  only  the 
mole-hill.  Mrs.  Martin  recognized  it  with  an  ex- 
asperated sigh.  "  I'm  as  sorry  now  as  I  can  be  that 
I  ever  offered  to  take  her  here.  But  Mrs.  War- 
burton  was  in  such  a  fix — having  to  leave  on  the 
instant — and  we  being  sort  of  related  now — and  Mr. 
Warburton  having  given  Phoebe  that  house — and  I 
didn't  want  Phoebe  to  take  Pauline  and  Frederick — 
Sylvia  and  Nancy  are  enough  for  her — it  just 
seemed  to  me  as  if  it  was  my  duty.  And  now  she's 
got  two  weeks  longer  here.  Of  course,  if  you 
haven't  noticed  anything,  it's  no  use  my  talking  to 
you,"  Mrs.  Martin  concluded  with  an  audible  irri- 
tation, "  but  I  was  going  to  ask  you  if  Ernie  had  said 
or  done  anything  that  showed  how  he  felt  towards 
Pauline." 

Mr.  Martin  now  gave  the  matter  conscientious 
consideration.  "  Why,  I  should  say  he  didn't  feel 
at  all.     Of  course  I  don't  see  them  together  much." 

"  No,  she  takes  him  away  from  the  house  every 
chance  she  gets,"  Mrs.  Martin  interpolated. 

"  Well,  Ernest  went  in  on  the  train  to  Boston  with 
Tug  and  me  yesterday.  All  he  talked  about  was 
that  tramp-trip  to  Europe  he  wants  to  take  with 
Williston  and  Turner.  Lord,  no,  he's  not  thinking 
of  marriage.  Why,  the  moment  I  realized  that  I'd 
got  to  marry  you  or  die,  I  went  right  to  work.  And 
let  me  tell  you,  I  never  worked  so  hard  since,  as  that 
first  year  with  Weldon  and  Clark.  No,  Ernest  isn't 
in  love." 


Ernest  and  the  Conspirators  249 

The  shade  on  Mrs.  Martin's  brow  gave  a  little 
before  a  look  of  flattered  reminiscence.  She 
dropped  the  subject  for  a  while.  But  by  night  the 
shade  had  returned. 

"  Why,  the  minute  he  appeared,"  Mrs.  Martin 
continued,  unbosoming  herself  to  Phoebe  that  even- 
ing, "  it  was  as  if  she  got  electrified — she  became 
quite  a  different  girl.  I'd  thought  she  was  a  little 
too  dead-and-alive  before.  Dead-and-alive — I  wish 
you  could  see  her  with  Ernie  when  there's  no  com- 
pany in  the  house.  Well,  she's  never  alone  with 
him  when  I  can  help  it.  I  take  my  sewing  and  sit 
right  with  them.  I  didn't  mind  it  at  first.  It  only 
amused  me.  But  when  Ernie  began  to  lose  his  head 
— I  don't  know  why  I  should  be  so  surprised,"  Mrs. 
Martin  went  on  in  a  mood  of  extreme  self-disgust. 
"  I've  seen  that  kind  of  woman  so  many  times  be- 
fore, I  ought  to  know  her  on  sight.  She's  one  kind 
of  woman  to  women,  and  another  to  men.  Why, 
when  she  meets  a  man  for  the  first  time,  she's  just 
like  a  cat  sensing  a  mouse — all  ears  and  paws  and 
cruel  excitement." 

Phoebe  and  her  mother  were  sitting  on  the  piazza 
of  the  Martin  house.  It  was  an  evening  in  late 
June,  pearl-soft,  moon-lighted,  rose-perfumed.  At 
one  end  of  the  piazza,  their  backs  against  the  up- 
rights of  the  big  Gloucester  hammock,  Sylvia  talked 
with  Frederick  Wright.  Sylvia  sat  concealed,  ex- 
cept where  the  moonlight  changed  the  flow  of  her 
much-washed-and-faded  organdie  skirt  to  a  cascade 
of  splendor.     Frederick  was  in  full  light. 


250  Ernest  and  the  Conspirators 

They  all  liked  Frederick  Wright.  The  responsi- 
bilities of  his  hurried  engineering  life  had  made  him 
older  in  flesh  than  they.  His  outdoor  existence  had 
kept  him  younger  in  spirit.  His  face  was  full  of 
surprising  contrasts.  Some  of  his  hair  had  gone, 
and  what  remained  had  turned  a  crisp  gray.  The 
sun  had  changed  his  skin  to  leather;  yet  his  expres- 
sion was  that  of  a  boy.  Again,  all  the  resolution 
in  the  world  seemed  to  be  compressed  between  his 
lips;  but  no  one  of  their  group  laughed  longer  or 
more  easily.  And  his  eyes  looked  as  if  they  could 
out-stare  the  sun ;  but  they  were  quick-observing  and 
quick-smiling. 

These  eyes  never  strayed  from  Sylvia's  face  ex- 
cept when  Pauline  and  Ernest  promenaded  within 
the  circle  of  vision. 

This  was  often;  for  Ernest,  at  Pauline's  request, 
had  taken  her  for  a  "  little  stroll  "  in  the  garden 
immediately  after  dinner.  An  hour  had  passed,  but 
they  still  walked.  But  Pauline  inevitably  became  the 
focus  of  masculine  eyes.  Now  as  she  drifted  along, 
she  seemed  both  to  sway  and  to  pulsate. 

11  Would  you  think  she'd  dare  keep  Ernie  out 
there  all  this  time,  and  you  waiting  to  see  him?" 
Mrs.  Martin  asked  indignantly. 

Phoebe  did  not  explain  to  her  mother  that 
Pauline's  social  code  proclaimed  woman's  first  duty, 
the  subjugation  of  man,  woman's  first  responsibility, 
the  entertainment  of  the  unattached  male;  and  that 
Pauline,  with  the  naivete  of  her  type,  took  it  for 
granted  that  Phoebe's  code  was  the  same  as  her 


Ernest  and  the  Conspirators  251 

own.  All  Phoebe  said  was:  "  She  certainly  is  one 
peach  of  a  pippin!  " 

"  If  she  behaved  as  well  as  she  looked,"  Mrs. 
Martin  said  grudgingly,  "  she'd  do  very  well.  Not 
that  she  hasn't  lovely  ways  when  men  aren't  round," 
she  added  conscientiously. 

Pauline  had  the  charming,  gracious  manner  of 
the  finishing-off  school.  And  she  was  really  beauti- 
ful. At  first,  Phoebe  and  Mrs.  Martin  had  taken 
a  genuine  delight  in  that  beauty,  a  genuine  interest 
in  the  methods  by  which  it  was  served  and  con- 
served. Pauline  always  went  to  bed  early  if  no 
evening  engagement  presented  itself.  If  she  stayed 
up  late,  she  slept  late,  carefully  foregoing  breakfast, 
however;  and  appearing  first  at  lunch,  in  order  not 
to  disturb  a  household  limited  in  maids.  Her  care 
of  her  body  was  excessive  and  special.  Systematic 
massage  had  transmuted  a  constitutional  pastiness 
of  skin  to  a  delicate  pallor,  just  tinted  with  rose. 
Systematic  exercise  had  reduced  a  figure,  constitu- 
tionally inclined  to  sumptuousness,  close  to  the  line 
of  litheness.  She  was  brunette,  but  there  was  a 
bizarre  note  in  her  coloring.  Artists  had  told  her 
that  her  hair  and  eyes  were  olive-green — a  dictum 
which  she  was  fond  of  quoting  with  a  languid  smile. 

Pauline  dressed  with  care  and  skill,  and  subtlety. 

To-night,  for  instance,  the  simplicity  of  her  mar- 
velous gown  was  built  on  a  system  of  complications 
which  taxed  even  Phoebe's  photographic  observa- 
tion. The  principle  was  gauze  hung  over  gauze — 
the  interior  background,  a  strange-colored  Oriental 


252  Ernest  and  the  Conspirators 

silk.  Her  fingers  were  always  weighted  with  Ori- 
ental rings.  Her  shoulders  always  bore  an  Oriental 
scarf.  Phoebe  noted  now  with  amusement  that  at 
regular  intervals  the  scarf  floated  away  from  the 
graceful  arms,  compelling  Ernest  to  stop  and  re- 
adjust it. 

Ernest  was  an  adequate  companion-piece  for  this 
decorative  figure;  for  he  was  at  the  prime  and 
zenith  of  his  boy-comeliness.  The  moonlight 
gleamed  on  his  hair,  as  on  a  highly-polished  steel; 
it  was  more  than  ever  like  the  burnished  breast- 
plumage  of  some  blue-and-black  bird.  His  eyes  still 
held  the  clearness  of  mountain  lakes.  But  his  mouth 
was  firm,  his  look  steady,  his  tall,  slender  figure 
potential  somehow  of  its  skilled  strength.  He 
seemed  none  the  less  virile  because  of  his  white  skin 
and  his  long  lashes. 

"  I'd  always  hoped  somehow  that  Ern  would  fall 
in  love  with  Sylvia, "  Phoebe  said,  sighing. 

Mrs.  Martin's  lips  tightened.  "  I  don't  know 
that  I  think  that  Sylvia  is  any  more  suited  to  him 
than  Pauline,"  she  said  stiffly.  "  I  remember, 
Phoebe,"  she  began  again,  "  once  when  I  was  first 
married — well,  you  were  only  a  few  months  old — a 
woman  came  to  visit  me  from  North  Campion  way. 
Etta  Danvers  was  her  name.  Edward — your 
father — had  never  met  her.  He  was  away  when 
she  came,  and  until  he  returned  she  and  I  had  just 
the  nicest  time  together.  I  remember  how  fond  she 
seemed  of  you.  Pretty  soon  your  father  came  home 
and — well,  I  couldn't  tell  you  how  it  happened,  but 


Ernest  and  the  Conspirators  253 

the  first  thing  I  knew  I  was  doing  all  the  work  and 
taking  care  of  you,  and  she  was  sitting  in  the  parlor 
in  a  long,  lacy,  ruffled — tea-gown,  she  called  it — en- 
tertaining your  father.  I  won't  go  so  far  as  to  say 
that  I  was  jealous.  But  I  certainly  wasn't  happy. 
My  only  comfort  was  " — and  now  a  spark  of  fem- 
inine amusement  in  her  eye,  pointed  by  delicate  fem- 
inine spite,  kindled  its  fellow  in  Phoebe's  eye — "  that 
every  night  Edward  would  ask  me  how  soon  she  was 
going.  She  bored  him  to  death.  But  later  that 
woman  broke  up  a  family  in  North  Campion.  She'd 
have  broken  up  mine  if  Edward  had  been  that  kind 
of  man."  Mrs.  Martin  paused  as  if  to  collect  her- 
self. 

Phoebe  looked  steadfastly  at  her  mother;  but 
her  eyes  grew  big  with  a  sudden  soft  luminosity, 
velvety-dark,  velvety-bright.  She  was  reflecting 
that,  in  some  subtle  and  inexplicable  way,  her  rela- 
tions with  her  mother  had  changed  entirely  since 
her  marriage.  Mrs.  Martin  confided  in  her,  not 
alone  her  minor  troubles  but  all  those  major  worries 
that  she  would  never  have  mentioned  before.  It 
was  very  beautiful  and  very  wonderful,  Phoebe 
thought.  It  brought  them  so  close  together — a  little 
as  if  Mrs.  Martin  had  retraced  her  steps  to  her  early 
wifehood,  as  if  Phoebe  had  taken  a  bound  for- 
ward to  the  middle  years.  It  was  not  that  either 
of  them  had  lost  anything.  It  was  only  that  their 
relationship  had  been  enriched.  They  were  mother 
and  daughter  just  the  same;  but  also  they  were 
comrades  and  friends. 


254  Ernest  and  the  Conspirators 

"  Mother,''  Phoebe  interrupted,  "just  think! 
Before  I  was  married,  there  were  some  things  I 
perfectly  hated  about  matrimony.  I  used  to  get 
terribly  discontented  to  think  that  when  I  was  mar- 
ried I'd  have  to  sit  back  and  watch  other  young 
people  going  out  together  and  getting  engaged — and 
I  wouldn't  be  in  it  myself.  Sometimes  that  would 
give  me  an  awful  back-number  feeling.  But  noth- 
ing's ever  the  way  you  think  it's  going  to  be,  is  it? 
Why,  I  feel  so  superior  now.  When  I  look  at 
Pauline  and  Ern  walking  together  there  in  the  moon- 
light, they  seem  like  shadows  that  haven't  become 
real  yet.  They  all,  even  Sylvia  and  Frederick,  seem 
so  inexperienced  and  futile  and  foolish.  Why,  I 
wouldn't  go  back  for  anything  in  this  world." 

"  Yes,"  Mrs.  Martin  agreed,  "  that's  the  way  I 
felt."  Her  voice  dropped.  At  the  end  of  the  long 
walk,  Pauline  and  Ernest  had  turned.  Automat- 
ically, Pauline's  scarf  whirled  off  her  shoulders  like 
a  vapor  on  a  breeze.  Automatically,  Ernest's  hand 
came  up,  caught  it  and  readjusted  it. 

"  Ernest  hasn't  fumbled  it  yet,"  Phoebe  whis- 
pered.    "  His  form  is  perfect." 

But,  without  a  smile,  Mrs.  Martin  reverted  to  the 
biggest  question  in  her  life  for  the  moment.  u  I 
don't  know  what  I'm  going  to  do  about  it,  Phoebe. 
Sometimes  I  make  up  my  mind  that  I'll  have  a  talk 
with  Pauline.  Then  again  I  think  I'll  invent  some 
cock-and-bull  story  so  she'll  have  to  leave."  Mrs. 
Martin  ended  by  looking  dumbly  at  her  daughter, 
her  face  again  torn  by  irresolution. 


Ernest  and  the  Conspirators  255 

"  Oh,  mother,  you  can't  do  that,"  Phoebe  said  in 
a  shocked  tone.  "  You  must  let  her  stay  here  until 
the  steamer  sails  for  Panama.  She  has  no  friends 
about  Boston  but  the  Warburtons.  You  can't  send 
a  young  girl  alone  to  a  hotel.  Mrs.  Warburton 
would  never  forgive  you,  and  I  shouldn't  blame  her." 

"Well  then,  what  shall  I  do,  Phoebe-child?  I 
can't  stand  another  two  weeks  of  this." 

For  an  instant  Phoebe  did  not  speak.  Then  all 
that  was  luminosity  went  out  of  her  eyes. 
"  Mother,"  she  said  in  a  low  tone,  "  you  ought  to 
know  what  to  do.  You  did  it  with  me  once.  Why 
can't  you  do  it  with  Ern?  " 

There  was  an  instant  of  close,  packed  silence. 
From  the  hammock  came  Sylvia's  throaty  chuckle, 
from  the  garden  Pauline's  lilting  laugh. 

"How — what  do  you  mean,  Phoebe?"  Mrs. 
Martin  asked.     But  Mrs.  Martin  knew. 

"  Why,  mother,  you  saved  me  from  Professor 
Hazeltine  that  time  by  not  opposing  me — I  mean 
by  not  forbidding  him  to  see  me  or  me  to  see  him. 
You  just  let  things  take  their  course.  If  you  hadn't, 
I  might  have  eloped  with  him.  Now,  why  don't  you 
use  the  same  tactics  in  Ernest's  case?  " 

"  Phoebe,"  said  Mrs.  Martin,  "  I  can't.  It's 
different  with  a  boy.  A  girl's  got  something  in  her 
that  keeps  her  from  harm  if  she's  any  good.  But 
I  declare  I  don't  think  boys  or  men  have.  They're 
the  most  helpless  things,  where  women  are  con- 
cerned, that  the  Lord  ever  made.  Oh,  it's  terrible, 
it's  unjust,  what  anxiety  women  are  always  suffering 


256  Ernest  and  the  Conspirators 

for  their  men-folks.  I  don't  think  IVe  got  the 
courage  to  keep  my  hands  off  Ernie's  case." 

"  Mother,"  said  Phoebe  emphatically,  "  you've 
got  to  find  the  courage.  Just  try  to  look  at  this 
situation  sensibly;  as  if  Ern  weren't  your  own  son. 
Ern's  pretty  obstinate,  you  know.  If  he's  really  in 
love  with  Pauline,  nothing  on  earth  can  keep  him 
away  from  her.  A  girl's  case  is  quite  different. 
She  can't  go  to  see  the  man.  But  when  it  comes  to 
Ern — he's  of  age;  he's  got  a  latch-key.  He  doesn't 
have  to  tell  you  where  he's  been,  and  you  may  be 
sure  he  won't,  if  he  doesn't  want  to.  I  think  you're 
fortunate  to  have  it  right  here  where  you  can  watch 
it.  Now  I  tell  you  what  you  do,  mother.  Instead 
of  breaking  up  their  tete-a-tetes,  you  see  that  Ern 
gets  so  much  of  Pauline  that  he  doesn't  know  where 
he's  at.  Of  course,  Ern  has  a  case  on  her.  That's 
perfectly  visible  to  the  naked  eye.  But  I  don't 
think  it's  permanent.  I  haven't  been  married  nearly 
a  year  without  realizing  that  a  woman  never  can 
pick  out  the  girl  that  a  man's  going  to  admire.  Oh, 
mother,  I  wish  you  could  see  the  girls  that  Tug 
thinks  are  pretty.  Some  of  them  are  a  perfect 
mess!  Just  the  same,  though,  I  don't  think  Pauline 
is  Ern's  kind  at  all.  She's  too  slow  and  mature  and 
indoorsy.  However,  you  never  can  tell,  and  the 
only  way  to  find  out,  and  to  help  him  to  find  out, 
is  to  let  him  have  plenty  of  her." 

"  But  he's  seeing  her  most  of  the  time  as  it  is," 
Mrs.  Martin  protested  helplessly. 

"Let  him  see  her  all  the  time,  then,"  Phoebe 


Ernest  and  the  Conspirators  257 

commanded  trenchantly.  "  Now  I  tell  you  what 
we'll  do,  mother.  We'll  play  Pauline's  game  with 
her.  Don't  try  to  separate  them.  Try  to  throw 
them  together.  Don't  let  any  other  girl  get  within 
a  rod  of  Ern.  Why,  at  the  end  of  a  week,  he'll 
be  simply  gasping  for  some  golf,  or  tennis,  or 
croquet  even.  Oh,  he'll  be  ready  to  fly  out  of  his 
skin!" 

"  And  Frederick?  "  Mrs.  Martin  questioned  irres- 
olutely. 

"  That'll  leave  Frederick  plenty  of  time  to  see 
Sylvia.  And  if  he  is  in  love  with  her — and  I'm  be- 
ginning to  think  Tug  has  better  eyes  in  his  head 
than  I  ever  gave  him  credit  for — it  will  be  all  right. 
I  just  bet  Sylvia  would  go  perfectly  crazy  about  that 
wild,  primitive,  western  life  of  his — bossing  wops 
and  building  bridges.  Mother,  you  come  right  in- 
side now  and  we'll  plan  out  a  campaign  of  lunches, 
dinners,  whists,  and  other  indoor  sports  that  will 
keep  Ern  Martin  glued  to  Pauline's  side  every  mo- 
ment for  the  next  two  weeks." 

Phoebe  showed  a  gay  spirit  on  the  walk  home 
that  night — so  gay  that  when  her  voice  developed 
a  sudden  note  of  tragedy,  her  companions  stared 
at  her  in  alarm. 

"  A  very  dreadful  thing  has  happened  to  me  this 
evening,  Tug  and  Sylvia,"  she  said.  "  My  mother 
has  been  warning  me  of  the  pitfalls  that  lie  in  the 
path  of  a  young  married  pair.  She  told  me  ex- 
plicitly to  beware  the  woman-visitor  who  dressed 
in  negligees  in  order  to  superman  the  husband.     I 


258  Ernest  and  the  Conspirators 

recalled  with  a  frightful  pang  that  Sylvia  came  down 
to  breakfast  this  morning  in  a  kimono.  Kindly, 
never,  never  appear  in  negligee  in  my  house  again, 
Sylvia,  unless  you  wear  a  mackintosh  over  it." 

Tug  stared  at  his  wife,  aghast  until  Sylvia's 
throaty  chuckle  floated  on  the  air  like  a  bubble. 

Later  Phoebe  accompanied  Sylvia  to  her  room 
for  a  good-night  peep  at  Nancy's  sprawled  little 
figure  and  flushed,  dimpled  face.  She  returned  to 
Tug,  still  bubbling.  "  Nancy'd  been  playing  wed- 
ding with  the  dolls  Ern  gave  her.  But  she's  got  her 
dope  all  wrong.  She's  united  '  Thilvia  '  in  the  bonds 
of  holy  matrimony  with  '  Ernesth  '  and  '  Pworline  ' 
with  '  Freddy  wick.'  " 

Followed  a  furious  outbreak  of  social  engage- 
ments in  the  Martin  family — all  internecine.  Set- 
ting her  teeth,  Mrs.  Martin  carried  out  her  daugh- 
ter's schedule  down  to  the  last  heroic  detail.  She 
played  Pauline's  game  better  than  that  enterprising 
young  lady  played  it  herself.  Did  Ernest  start  to 
go  anywhere  in  the  auto,  Mrs.  Martin  suggested 
that  Pauline  accompany  him.  Did  Pauline  make  a 
long-deferred  move  toward  returning  neighborhood 
calls,  Mrs.  Martin  insisted  that  Ernest  take  her  in 
the  machine.  When  they  returned,  Mrs.  Martin 
always  had  business  upstairs,  leaving  them  tete-a- 
tete  at  the  tea-table,  over  which  Pauline  presided 
with  such  histrionic  grace.  Mrs.  Martin  spent  her 
evenings  in  the  library,  leaving  the  front  room  free. 
Whenever  Ernest  took  Pauline  into  Boston  for  the 


Ernest  and  the  Conspirators  259 

theater,  he  always  found  an  enticing  little  supper 
welcoming  their  return. 

Not  easily  did  Mrs.  Martin  do  this.  And  during 
the  process,  she  was  an  intensely  unhappy  woman. 
Always  she  studied  her  son — studied  him  with  an 
interest  which  increased  as  the  days  went  by.  But 
for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  Ernest  was  an  absolute 
enigma  to  his  mother.  His  handsome  inscrutability 
never  emitted  a  gleam.  "  Just  the  look,"  Phoebe 
translated  it  to  herself,  "  of  the  man  who  is  in  love 
and  trying  to  conceal  it  from  his  family."  He  was 
punctilious  in  paying  Pauline  the  courtesies  which 
her  position  demanded.  But  was  he  growing  to  care 
less  or  more?  Mrs.  Martin  could  not  decide.  Then 
actual  terror  came  upon  her.  For  gradually,  under 
his  quiet,  she  felt  another  mood.  Ernest  was  wait- 
ing— passionately,  intensely,  ferociously  waiting. 
But  for  what? 

Frederick  arose  no  less  energetically  to  the  lure 
which  Phoebe  held  out.  He  appeared  at  her  house 
so  often  that  it  seemed  at  times  as  if  he  only  slept 
at  the  Martin  place.  Phoebe  used  to  say  that  the 
maid  found  him  sitting  on  the  steps  when  she  got 
up  at  six.  But  although  it  was  not  quite  that,  it  was 
almost  true.  Sylvia,  like  the  docile  guest  she  had 
always  been  (except  where  her  self-respect  was  in- 
volved),  lent  herself  in  perfect  obedience  to  Phoebe's 
plan.  She  walked  and  talked  with  Frederick.  She 
rode  and  motored  with  Frederick.  She  tennised 
and  golfed  with  Frederick.  She  billiarded  and 
pooled  with  Frederick.    Just  as  Mrs.  Martin  studied 


260  Ernest  and  the  Conspirators 

one  pair  of  lovers,  Phoebe  studied  the  other. 
Phoebe  felt  certain  of  Frederick's  growing  absorp- 
tion. But  Sylvia's  submission  of  the  perfect  guest 
developed  after  a  while  an  air  of  languid  passivity 
alternating  with  feverish  vivacity — the  mood  of  one 
constantly  expecting  something  and  constantly  being 
balked. 

The  last  night  came.  Early  the  next  morning, 
Pauline  was  to  board  her  steamer  for  Panama. 
Late  the  next  afternoon,  Frederick  was  to  take  his 
train  for  Arizona.  According  to  schedule,  Phoebe 
invited  to  dinner  all  the  elements  in  her  match-mak- 
ing and  match-breaking  schemes.  According  to 
schedule,  they  started  afterwards  for  a  walk  in  the 
Maywood  Park.  According  to  schedule,  they  en- 
tered the  Maywood  Park  appropriately  paired. 
According  to  schedule,  Phoebe  lost  in  the  meander- 
ings  of  the  tiny  bit  of  hilly  land,  first  Ernest  and 
Pauline,  then  Frederick  and  Sylvia.  According  to 
schedule,  she  and  Tug  immediately  made  a  swift 
way  home. 

Phoebe  called  her  mother  up  on  the  telephone. 
u  All  we've  got  to  do,  mother,"  she  announced,  "  is 
to  wait  for  the  returns  to  come  in.  It's  all  settled 
now  one  way  or  another." 

It  was. 

Somewhere  between  eleven  and  twelve,  having 
seen  Sylvia  home,  Frederick  strolled  back  to  the 
Martin  house.  Halfway,  he  met  Ernest  who,  hav- 
ing installed  Pauline  safe  under  his  mother's  roof, 
had  come  out  again. 


Ernest  and  the  Conspirators  261 

"  Where  you  going?  "  Frederick  demanded,  tak- 
ing cognizance  of  the  megaphone  which  Ernest  car- 
ried. 

"  Down  to  Sliney's  to  see  Red  Tate,"  Ernest  lied 
glibly.  "  I  just  remembered  I'd  promised  him  this 
megaphone.  He  wants  it  for  the  Maywood  game 
to-morrow.     See  you  later." 

They  passed. 

Frederick  continued  on  to  the  house.  After  go- 
ing upstairs,  Pauline  had  apparently  changed  her 
mind  about  retiring.  When  Frederick  came  onto 
the  piazza,  she  was  lying  in  the  hammock — an  Ori- 
ental houri  caught  in  the  meshes  of  her  vapory 
scarf. 

Sylvia  had  been  asleep  for  some  time;  had  been 
dreaming.  Gradually  a  noise,  tiny  but  recurrent, 
tapped  its  way  into  her  dreams,  maintained  itself 
there.  She  awoke.  Somebody  was  throwing  peb- 
bles at  her  window.  She  arose,  threw  on  her 
kimono,  drew  the  window  gently  open. 

Below  stood  Ernest  with  a  megaphone  to  his  lips. 
"  Come  down,  please,  Sylvia,"  he  demanded  in  a 
peremptory  whisper,  "  IVe  something  important  I 
want  to  ask  you." 

Sylvia  cupped  her  little  hands  into  a  makeshift 
pink  megaphone.  "  Of  course  I  won't  come  down," 
she  hissed.  "  Somebody' d  see  me.  Are  you 
crazy,  Ernest  Martin?  Somebody'll  hear  you.  Go 
home  at  once!  " 

Sylvia's  tone  was  equally  peremptory.     But  her 


262  Ernest  and  the  Conspirators 

little  white  face,  caught  between  bunches  of  misty, 
moon-shot  hair — most  deliciously — smiled. 

The  megaphone  went  up  again.  "  Sylvia !  "  Er- 
nest's whisper  was  no  louder,  but  somehow  it  was 
much  more  determined.  "  You  come  down  here  and 
listen  to  me  or  I'll  propose  to  you  through  this 
megaphone!  And  if  I  once  begin  to  tear  loose — 
after  this  month  that  I've  lived  in  a  bottle — the 
whole  metropolis  of  Maywood  is  going  to  hear  it." 

"  I'll  come  down,"  said  Sylvia. 

As  for  Pauline  and  Frederick 


The  next  morning  neither  of  Mrs.  Martin's 
guests  appeared  at  breakfast.  Halfway  through 
the  morning,  troubled  by  the  tomb-like  silence  in 
the  house,  Mrs.  Martin  knocked  on  Pauline's  door. 
Nobody  answered.  After  an  interval  of  stupefac- 
tion, Mrs.  Martin  opened  it.  The  room  had  not 
been  occupied.  Neither,  it  appeared,  had  Fred- 
erick's. But  pinned  to  Pauline's  dresser-scarf  was 
a  letter.     It  read: 

Dear,  dear  Lady: 

I  feel  somehow  as  if  I  were  doing  a  dreadful  thing  to 
repay  your  hospitality  by  running  off  like  this  without  tell- 
ing you  good-by  and  without  explanation — but  Frederick 
makes  me.  By  the  time  you  read  this,  I  shall  be  his  wife. 
I  don't  know  why  I  am  doing  it  except  to  please  him,  and 
perhaps — a  little  to  please  myself.  For  I  really  do  love 
him.  I  haven't  married  him  all  these  years  because  I  was 
afraid.     I  could  not  think  that   I  was  the  right   woman 


Ernest  and  the  Conspirators  263 

for  him  to  take  out  into  those  strange  Western  scenes.  But 
he  has  made  me  believe  it,  and  I'm  going  to  trust  to  his 
judgment.  And  somehow,  dear  lady,  I  think  I'm  really 
going  to  be  happy.  My  visit  here  has  taught  me  a  great 
deal  about  happiness  that  I  never  guessed  before.  I  have 
been  dreadfully  troubled.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  that  dear 
lad — Ernest — I  should  have  gone  mad.  By  the  time  you 
read  this,  I  shall  have  a  different  name.  And  so,  I'm 
going  to  sign  myself, 

Your  devoted  friend  and  admirer, 

Pauline  Wright. 

Phoebe  and  Tug  were  saying  good-night  to 
Nancy,  who  cuddled  sleepily  in  Tug's  arms. 
"  Lord,  Phoebe,"  said  Tug,  "  you  needn't  have  wor- 
ried about  Pauline  and  Ern  at  all.  You  ought  to 
have  heard  the  things  he  said  about  her,  going  in 
on  the  train  this  morning.  All  complimentary,  of 
course,  but  the  tone  that  a  man  takes  about  an  es- 
timable maiden-aunt.  I  never  saw  Ern  in  better 
spirits.  Oh,  by  the  way — he's  given  up  all  idea  of 
that  tramp-trip  to  Europe.  He  says  he  wants  to 
go  to  work  the  moment  he  gets  out  of  college — it 
can't  be  too  soon  for  him." 

Phoebe's  eyes  swept  the  room  unseeingly,  passed 
the  corner  where  Nancy's  wedding-party  still  stood, 
Ernest  united  to  Sylvia,  Pauline  to  Frederick. 
"  Mother'll  be  so  glad,"  she  said. 

"  Well,  Bertha,  I'm  glad  the  worst  of  your  wor- 
ries are  over,"  Mr.  Martin  was  saying.     "  And  I 


264  Ernest  and  the  Conspirators 

really  think  Pauline  will  make  Frederick  a  fine 
wife." 

u  I  think  so,  too,"  Mrs.  Martin  agreed  heartily. 
"  I  call  her  a  very  smart  girl.  She  cooks  beauti- 
fully when  she  wants  to.  And  she's  as  clever  with 
her  needle!  Does  beautiful  fancywork.  And  she 
makes  half  the  things  she  wears.  Yes,  I  realized 
this  morning  that  Ernie  didn't  care.  I  never 
saw  him  in  such  high  spirits.  Up  before  breakfast 
and  singing  and  whistling  just  the  way  he  used  to 
when  he  was  a  little  boy!  " 

"  Yes,  and  there's  another  thing  you'll  be  glad  to 
hear,"  Mr.  Martin  went  on.  "  He's  given  up  that 
idea  of  tramping  abroad  with  Williston  and  Turner. 
He  had  a  long  talk  with  Tug  and  me  on  the  train 
this  morning.  He  wants  to  go  to  work  in  the  office 
the  moment  he  gets  his  sheepskin." 

"  Well,"  Mrs.  Martin  ejaculated,  "  if  that  isn't 
the  best  news  I've  heard  for  a  long  time." 

Immediately  after  dinner,  Phoebe  appeared.  Tug 
and  Mr.  Martin  went  out  on  the  piazza  for  a  smoke. 

The  conspirators  gazed  at  each  other. 

"  Well,  mother,"  Phoebe  said  jubilantly.  "  We 
won!  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Martin,  her  joy  beaming  in 
every  line  of  her  face,  "  Ernest's  heart-whole  and 
fancy-free.    We  won." 


CHAPTER  X 

PHOEBE  AND  THE  MOST  IMPORTANT  BIRD 

"TOWARD!"  Mrs.  Martin's  voice  was  the 
JOj  kind  that  ordinarily  blurred  on  the  tele- 
phone, but  to-day  a  peremptory  tone  of  command,  a 
staccato  note  of  excitement,  sharpened  and  clarified 
it.  "  I'm  talking  from  Phoebe's  house.  Phoebe 
called  me  up  an  hour  ago.  I  hurried  right  over,  but 
this  is  my  first  free  moment.  Everything  is  all  right. 
Dr.  Bush  has  been  and  gone.  The  nurse  has  just 
come.  I've  telephoned  Ernie  not  to  come  out — he's 
going  to  the  ball  game.  You'd  better  get  dinner 
in  town.  And,  Edward,  I  don't  suppose  it's  any 
use  saying  this  to  you,  but  if  you  would  only  go 
somewhere  for  an  hour  or  two  this  evening — to 
Keith's  or  any  place  like  that — I  do  think  it  would 
be  the  most  sensible  thing  you  could  do.  Now,  re- 
member what  I  say.  Everything  is  all  right  here. 
Phoebe's  chattering  away  with  the  nurse  this  mo- 
ment about  that  first  dance  she  ever  gave.  There's 
nothing  to  worry  about.    Good-by." 

"  Good-by,"  Mr.  Martin  answered  mechanically. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  there  were  many  questions 
that  he  wanted  to  ask,  but  he  could  not  think  of  a 
single  one.  Mechanically  he  hung  up  the  receiver. 
He  sat  for  a  moment,  silent.    Then,  still  mechanic- 

265 


266     Phoebe  and  the  Most  Important  Bird 

ally,  he  opened  a  drawer  in  his  desk  and  took  out 
a  note  in  Phoebe's  handwriting.  It  had  come  to 
him  months  ago  in  mid-morning  haste,  flourishing 
a  special  delivery  stamp.     It  read: 

Father  Dearest: 

This  is  to  tell  you,  so  that  you  may  know  as  quick  as 
anybody,  that  the  Most  Important  Bird  is  going  to  make 
Tug  and  me  a  visit.    Now  I'm  going  up  to  tell  mother. 

Your  loving, 

Phoebe. 
Oh,  father,  I'm  so  happy. 

It  was  curious  how  differently  this  news  had  af- 
fected Mr.  and  Mrs.  Martin.  Mr.  Martin  was 
inclined  to  be  silent  about  the  great  change  which 
it  heralded.  He  never  referred  to  Phoebe's  note — 
not  even  to  Phoebe  herself.  Previous  to  its  receipt, 
he  had  seen  his  daughter  daily  by  means  of  a 
process  described  by  Phoebe  as  "  intuitive  collu- 
sion." If  Tug  and  Phoebe  did  not  appear  at  the 
Martin  place  during  the  evening,  Mr.  Martin  al- 
ways strolled  over  to  their  house  just  before  he 
went  to  bed.  Nowadays,  rain  or  shine,  he  always 
stopped  to  see  Phoebe  on  his  way  to  Boston.  And 
at  his  return,  he  drank  down  greedily  Mrs.  Martin's 
news  of  the  day.  As  for  Mrs.  Martin — Mr.  Mar- 
tin used  to  wonder  as  he  sat  nightly  in  the  rich  flow 
of  her  monologue.  Life  had  suddenly  enlarged  for 
her.  It  had  lengthened,  broadened,  heightened, 
deepened.    She  was  almost  exaltcc. 


Phoebe  and  the  Most  Important  Bird     267 

"  Oh,  I'm  so  happy,"  she  would  say  again  and 
again.  "  I'm  so  happy.  I  feel  as  if  life  was  begin- 
ning all  over  again.  I  declare  if  there's  one  thing 
I've  learned,  it's  to  trust  life.  I  used  to  be  so  afraid 
of  everything — of  all  the  changes,  I  mean,  the 
chances  and  choices.  But  now  I  know  everything's 
coming  out  all  right,  no  matter  what  it  is.  And 
then  Phoebe  and  Tug  are  both  so  happy.  That's  the 
way  it  ought  to  be.  And  it's  come  just  as  I  hoped 
it  would.  They've  had  a  whole  year  alone  together, 
just  chock-full  of  good  times.  They  know  each 
other's  faults  and  failings.  And  now  there's  some- 
thing coming  that  they'll  live  and  work  for  as  they've 
never  lived  and  worked  before.  Phoebe  says  she 
wants  a  boy  and  Tug  says  he  wants  a  girl.  I  tell 
Phoebe  I  don't  care.  I'm  not  looking  a  gift-horse 
in  the  mouth.  I  guess  one  reason  you're  so  happy 
about  your  children's  children  is  because  you  can 
enjoy  them  without  any  sense  of  responsibility. 
When  I  look  back,  it  doesn't  seem  as  if  I'd  ever 
had  the  time  to  enjoy  my  own  children.  And,  Ed- 
ward, when  I  think  that  there's  going  to  be  another 
baby  in  the  house — well!  There's  nothing  like  the 
comfort  you  get  out  of  a  little  baby!  It  loves  you 
so  much  and  it's  so  helpless  and  cunning  and  it 
hasn't  begun  to  be  naughty  yet.  Not  that  I  want 
them  to  be  too  good.  And  then,  land!  you  can  put 
them  down  for  a  moment  and  know  that  they'll  be 
there  when  you  come  back." 

"  Edward,  I've  never  enjoyed  any  sewing  so  much 
as  baby-clothes.     The  materials  are  all  so  fine  and 


268     Phoebe  and  the  Most  Important  Bird 

dainty  and  soft,  and  the  thing's  finished  before  you 
get  tired  working  on  it.  YouVe  no  idea  how  baby 
things  have  changed  since  our  children  were  young. 
So  much  simpler  now — and  really  prettier,  I  think. 
Phoebe's  never  been  much  of  a  hand  to  sew,  but  she's 
doing  very  well.  She  says  she  won't  have  a  ma- 
chine-stitch in  a  single  thing.  My  land,  she's  taking 
every  woman's  magazine  in  the  country,  seems  if — 
looking  up  what  she  calls  '  baby-dope.'  She  says 
she  hasn't  read  a  pretty-girl  paper  in  six  months. 
She  says  she  knows  she'll  never  look  smart  again 
because  she'll  always  be  so  much  more  interested  in 
how  the  baby  looks.  She  says  she  knew  her  doom 
was  sealed  when  she  gave  up  a  pair  of  new  earrings 
for  some  real  Val.  But  I  tell  her  that's  all  nonsense. 
And  it  is — those  things  take  care  of  themselves." 

11  Phoebe  says  she  doesn't  care  who  does  the 
housekeeping  or  if  it  never  gets  done — she's  going 
to  take  care  of  her  baby  herself.  And  I  tell  her  to 
stick  to  that.  That's  the  only  way  you  can  be  sure 
that  things  are  being  done  right.  Phoebe  says  she's 
not  going  to  try  to  run  her  children's  lives.  She 
says  that  she  hopes  that  this  one  will  want  to  go  to 
Harvard  like  his  father — she  always  talks  as  if  it 
were  a  boy.  But  she  says  if  he  makes  up  his  mind 
to  be  a  chiropodist"  Mrs.  Martin  came  down  on 
this  word  with  Phoebe's  own  italicising  vigor,  "  she 
won't  interfere.  She  says  she's  never  forgotten  the 
way  you  let  Ernie  go  to  Princeton  when  you  were 
just  dying"  again  Phoebe's  forthright  accent  pushed 
its  way  into  her  mother's  speech,  "  to  have  him  go 


Phoebe  and  the  Most  Important  Bird     269 

to  Harvard.  She  says  that  it  was  a  great  lesson  to 
her." 

Little  shadowy  remembrances  of  these-  talks  flitted 
through  Mr.  Martin's  mind  as  he  sat  with  Phoebe's 
months-old  note  in  his  hand. 

"  Oh,  Edward,  I  did  so  hope "  Mrs.  Martin 

began  when  she  opened  Phoebe's  door  to  Mr.  Mar- 
tin about  half-past  six  that  evening.  But  she 
stopped  halfway,  her  eyes  on  his  face.  "  I  don't 
suppose  you  could  stay  away,"  she  ended,  sighing. 

"  How  is  she?  "  Mr.  Martin  asked,  following  his 
wife  into  the  living-room. 

"  She's  all  right.  Dr.  Bush  is  upstairs  now.  He's 
going  home  to  dinner  right  away." 

Mr.  Martin  stood  still  for  an  instant.  He  stared 
about  Phoebe's  pleasant  living-room.  But  he  saw 
nothing — he  was  listening.  The  house  was  quiet; 
but  it  was  the  quiet  of  the  humming-top.  As  he 
came  along  the  street,  Theresa's  scared  white  Irish 
face  had  peered  unaccustomedly  at  him  from  the 
dining-room  window.  Now  a  door  in  the  dining- 
room  creaked.  Theresa  was  listening,  even  as  he 
listened.  Mrs.  Martin's  face  was  white,  too,  but 
it  was  a  radiant  whiteness.  Altogether  she  had  a 
new  air — curt,  alert,  secure,  victorious.  The  room 
bore  its  normal  look  of  an  exquisite  order.  Every- 
where were  bowls  of  fresh  June  roses — roses  that 
must  fade  before  Phoebe  could  see  them  again. 
Through  the  open  windows  drifted  the  scent  of 
other  roses — roses   that  must  die  before   Phoebe 


270     Phoebe  and  the  Most  Important  Bird 

could  pick  them.  On  the  table  an  ivory  paper-knife 
protruded  from  a  half-cut  book.  A  handkerchief 
marked  a  place  in  a  magazine.  Some  of  Phoebe's 
sewing  lay  near — a  tiny  drift  of  snowy  linen  edged 
with  snowy  lace.  The  light  caught  on  it  in  a  steely 
glisten — the  needle  had  not  been  pulled  from  the 
last  stitch. 

"  Where's  Tug?  "  Mr.  Martin  asked. 

"  Upstairs.  He  and  Phoebe  have  been  playing 
old  maid  and  checkers  and  dominoes  and  California 
Jack  and  authors  and  picture  puzzles  all  the  after- 
noon." 

"  Has  Ernest  come  yet?  " 

"  Yes.  He's  in  the  kitchen.  He  got  his  dinner 
in  town  as  I  told  him.  But  Theresa's  feeding  him 
now.  She  always  saves  something  for  him.  Oh, 
here's  Dr.  Bush.    I  guess  I'll  go  up  for  a  moment." 

Dr.  Bush  came  running  jauntily  down  the  stairs. 
His  big,  middle-aged  body  was  surmounted  by  a 
head  that  seemed  entirely  covered  with  the  combina- 
tion of  bushy,  grizzled  hair  and  bushy  grizzled 
beard.  Somewhere  in  the  middle  of  this,  a  pair  of 
huge  search-light  spectacles  magnified  if  possible  his 
look  of  a  choleric  kindness. 

"  Hullo,  Ed,"  he  said,  fumbling  among  the 
things  on  the  settle  for  his  hat.  "  What  afe  you 
looking  so  down  in  the  mouth  for?  I  suppose  you've 
got  it  into  your  head  that  this  is  a  kind  of  a  special 
occasion.  Well,  now  you  forget  all  that.  But  don't 
you  go  up  there.  You'll  upset  her  more  than  any- 
body, looking  the  way  you  do.     Now,  remember, 


Phoebe  and  the  Most  Important  Bird     271 

Ed,  Phoebe's  strong  as  a  lion.  You  couldn't  kill  her 
with  an  axe.  She's  always  taken  everything  harder 
than  any  girl  in  this  town  and  thrown  it  off  quicker. 
Her  courage  is  splendid — she  hasn't  stopped  joking 
yet.     So  long!  " 

The  door  closed  on  Dr.  Bush. 

"  Hullo,  father!  "  It  was  Ernest  who  spoke;  he 
had  come  in  from  the  dining-room.  Ernest  also 
looked  pale.     "  How'd  he  say  Phoebe  was?  " 

"  All  right,"  said  Mr.  Martin. 

There  was  a  pause. 

"  Rotten  game?  "  Mr.  Martin  inquired. 

"  Slow  as  death !  Not  a  ghost  of  a  chance  for  the 
Nationals  this  year  and  everybody  knows  it.  There 
wasn't  a  corporal's  guard  in  the  bleachers." 

"  Matty  pitch?" 

"  No.  The  Giants  are  saving  him  for  the  Chicago 
series.  They  pitched  Ames.  He  did  just  as  well — 
against  us." 

"Who  for  Boston?" 

11  Some  bush  leaguer  or  other  that  Tenney's  just 
found." 

Another  pause. 

"What  was  the  score?"  asked  Mr.  Martin  at 
last. 

"  Nine  to  three." 

Another  pause. 

"Who  won?" 

"  New  York,  of  course." 

"  Oh,  yes — I  remember  you  told  me." 

Another  pause. 


272     Phoebe  and  the  Most  Important  Bird 

11  Father,"  Ernest  asked  suddenly,  u  how  long  is 
this  going  to  last?  " 

"  Can't  tell,"  Mr.  Martin  answered.  "  It  may 
be  all  night.    It  may  be " 

"  Gee,  I  hate  anything  like  this,  father,  don't 
you?" 

"  It  isn't  the  way  I'd  choose  to  spend  my  even- 
ings," Mr.  Martin  admitted. 

There  was  another  pause. 

"  Father!  "  Ernest  broke  it  desperately  at  last. 
M  I  can't  stand  this  any  longer.  I  guess  I'll  go  down 
to  Sliney's  and  bowl  a  string  or  two.  It  sort  of 
takes  your  mind  off  a  thing  like  this  to  do  something. 
Say,  father,  don't  you  think  you'd  better  come  too? 
It's  fierce  waiting.  I've  been  here  only  an  hour  and, 
Lord,  I'm  as  nervous  as  the  deuce." 

Mr.  Martin  shook  his  head. 

"  Well,  I  won't  stir  out  of  Sliney's.  You  tele- 
phone me  there,  in  case  you  need  me  for  anything — 
or  if " 

"  All  right,"  agreed  Mr.  Martin. 

Noiselessly  Mrs.  Martin  returned.  "  Oh — Ber- 
tha— how  is  it  upstairs?  "  Mr.  Martin  asked. 

11  All  right,"  Mrs.  Martin  answered  brightly. 
"  Phoebe's  dozing." 

"  Say,  mother,"  Ernest  said,  "  I'm  going  out  for 
a  while — as  long  as  I  can't  be  of  any  use  here."  He 
kissed  his  mother. 

11  All  right."  Mrs.  Martin  absently  returned  his 
kiss.    "  I  guess " 

11  You  see,  mother,"  Ernest  continued,  "  it  gets 


Phoebe  and  the  Most  Important  Bird     273 

on  my  nerves  waiting  round.  You  don't  mind,  do 
you,  mother?  "  There  was  entreaty  in  Ernest's 
voice. 

"  No,"  Mrs.  Martin  answered,  still  absentiy.  "  I 
gUess  I'll " 

Mrs.  Martin  disappeared  noiselessly  upward. 

The  door  closed  on  Ernest. 

Alone  in  the  living-room,  Mr.  Martin  moved  de- 
liberately up  to  the  center-table.  Deliberately  he 
cleared  away  the  decorative  litter  on  it — the  bowl 
of  roses,  a  big  photograph  of  himself  in  a  silver 
frame,  the  gay-covered  gift-books,  a  magazine  or 
two.  He  took  out  his  watch,  snapped  it  from  the 
chain,  opened  it,  and  placed  it  on  the  table.  He 
reached  into  the  pocket  of  his  coat  and  brought  out 
a  pack  of  cards.    He  laid  out  Canfield. 

"  Hullo,  dad !  "  Tug  had  come  noiselessly 
downstairs.  Tug's  voice  was  quiet;  but  he,  too,  dis- 
played the  general  facial  whiteness. 

"  Hullo,  Tug,"  Mr.  Martin  rejoined.  "  How  is 
it  up  there?  " 

11  They  tell  me  everything's  going  as  well  as  we 
can  expect.  That  nurse — Miss  Burton — is  a 
crackerjack.     Black  queen  on  your  red  king,  dad." 

"  Pretty  disturbing  business,"  Mr.  Martin  volun- 
teered. 

"  Oh,  Lord,  it's — I  never — well "     Tug  did 

not  attempt  to  finish  his  sentence.  "  Red  eight  on 
your  black  nine.  Good !  There's  another  ace.  You 
need  a  six  the  worst  way.  Too  bad !  I  guess  you're 
through.    How  often  do  you  average  to  do  it?  " 


274     Phoebe  and  the  Most  Important  Bird 

11  Once  or  twice  in  an  evening."  Mr.  Martin 
shuffled  and  re-dealt. 

For  a  moment  there  was  no  sound  in  the  room 
but  the  soft  fall  of  the  cards.  Then  from  upstairs 
came  voices — the  hurry  of  footsteps. 

Mrs.  Martin  came  down.  "  You  go  up,  Tug," 
she  said.     "  She's  awake.     She  wants  you." 

Tug  bolted. 

"  How  are  things  going?  "  Mr.  Martin  asked. 

"  Oh,  beautifully,"  Mrs.  Martin  said.  Her  man- 
ner was  still  buoyant  and  her  face  bright;  but  her 
tone  was  a  little  flat.  "  Phoebe  thought  she'd  like 
to  talk  with  Tug  awhile."  Before  seating  herself, 
Mrs.  Martin  walked  over  to  the  window  and 
glanced  out  in  a  casual  way.  Then  she  moved  a 
chair — quietly — so  that  it  faced  the  end  of  the  street. 
She  sat  with  her  eyes  nailed  to  the  distance. 

Gradually  the  atmosphere  of  the  house  changed; 
into  the  quiet  which  Dr.  Bush  had  left  crept  a  vague 
element  of  disorganization. 

"  Don't  you  think  I'd  better  telephone  Dr.  Bush, 
Bertha?  "  Mr.  Martin  asked  after  a  long  silence. 

"  Oh,  no,"  Mrs.  Martin  said.  She  seemed  al- 
most shocked.  "  He  said  not  to  telephone  him 
unless  the  nurse  told  us  to.  Did  you  bring  out  a 
paper,  Edward?  " 

Mr.  Martin  handed  her  his  Transcript.  Mrs. 
Martin  studied  it  carefully.  At  regular  intervals, 
her  eyes  started  at  the  bottom  of  a  column,  wan- 
dered up — up — up — until  they  hurdled  its  heads, 
shot  out  the  window  and  down  the  street. 


Phoebe  and  the  Most  Important  Bird     275 

"  Bertha,"  Mr.  Martin  said  after  a  half  an  hour 
of  this,  "  I'm  going  to  telephone  Bush." 

"  Listen !  "  Mrs.  Martin  commanded  peremptor- 
ily. Came  from  the  distance  a  faint  chu-r-r-r-r 
which  grew  rapidly  into  chug-chug-chug.  "  Here  he 
comes !  "    Her  tone  gushed  relief. 

Dr.  Bush  stopped  at  the  gate,  tinkered  for  a  long 
moment  about  his  car,  walked  leisurely  up  the  path, 
stopped  to  examine  a  rose,  snapped  something  off 
a  petal,  passed  leisurely  through  the  door  which 
Mrs.  Martin  held  open  for  him,  pushed  back  his 
goggles,  threw  his  hat  onto  the  hall-settle,  stopped 
an  instant  in  the  doorway  of  the  living-room. 

"Good  work,  Ed!"  he  commended  genially. 
"  Say,  you  needed  that  ace,  all  right.  Red  six  on 
your  black  seven.  Black  two  on  your  red  three! 
No,  don't  take  that  two.  Take  the  other  one.  Well, 
let's  see  how  things  are  going!"  He  proceeded 
leisurely  upstairs. 

Mr.  Martin  stopped  and  listened  for  a  moment. 
The  house  responded  at  once  to  the  stir  of  the  doc- 
tor's big,  bustling,  energetic,  dynamic  presence,  re- 
sponded— but  curiously — by  a  sudden,  serene  quiet. 

Mr.  Martin  resumed  his  work  with  the  cards. 

After  a  long  while  Dr.  Bush  came  down.  "  Well, 
everything's  fine  as  silk  here,"  he  said.  "  I'm  only 
wasting  time.  Phoebe's  just  asked  me  not  to  inter- 
rupt her  dominoes  again.  I  might  as  well  enjoy 
myself  this  evening  as  not.  I  say,  Ed,  what  do  you 
say  to  going  down  in  the  car  with  me?  We'll  stop 
in  for  one  round  of  the  moving  pictures." 


276     Phoebe  and  the  Most  Important  Bird 

"Guess  not,  Allen!  "  Mr.  Martin  answered. 
11  Thank  you  just  as  much." 

11  All  right,"  Dr.  Bush  said.  "  I'm  going  to  run 
up  the  street  and  take  a  look  at  old  Mrs.  Hooker. 
See  you  later." 

Again  the  room  filled  with  the  soft  slipping  sound 
of  the  cards.  Again,  the  house  that  had  grown  so 
serene  appeared  to  lose  its  grip  on  itself. 

"  I  finished  my  string  at  Sliney's."  It  was  Ernest. 
There  was  a  dull,  listless  note  in  Ernest's  voice;  and 
his  pallor  had  increased.  "  So  I  thought  I'd  run  up 
and  see  how  things  were  going.     How's  Phoebe?  " 

"  The  doctor  says  everything's  all  right  so  far," 
Mr.  Martin  said. 

"  Lord,  I'm  glad.  I  hate  to  think  of  Phoebe  suf- 
fering up  there.  Gee,  father,  Phoebe's  been  an 
awful  good  sister  to  me.  The  things  she  used  to 
try  to  work  out  of  you  for  me!  Why,  if  anything 
happened  to  Phoebe,  I — I  don't  know  what  I'd  do. 
There,  that  clears  that  space,  father.  No,  don't — 
yes,  that's  all  right.  Say,  where  are  all  the  sevens? 
I  bet  you're  going  to  do  it.  Well,  isn't  that  the 
limit?  Look  here,  father,  let  me  teach  you  a  new 
solitaire  I  got  the  other  day.  It's  a  corker,  Na- 
poleon." 

Mr.  Martin  watched  patiently  while  Ernest 
placed  all  fifty-two  cards  on  the  table.  He  listened 
patiently  to  Ernest's  long  and  complicated  direc- 
tions. "  Now  you've  got  the  hang  of  it,"  Ernest 
directed,  "  try  it  alone."  Mr.  Martin  patiently  laid 
out  the  cards. 


Phoebe  and  the  Most  Important  Bird     277 

Mrs.  Martin  came  in. 

Mr.  Martin's  hand  paused. 

"  How  about  it,  mother?  "  Ernest  asked. 

"  Oh,  everything's  all  right,  of  course.  But — 
well,  there's  nothing  to  do  but  wait.  Dr.  Bush'll  be 
here  pretty  soon." 

Mrs.  Martin  openly  took  up  her  station  at  a 
window.    Ernest  watched  her  for  a  while. 

The  cards  began  to  slip  and  slide  over  the  bare 
table.    Mr.  Martin  returned  to  his  Napoleon. 

Suddenly  Ernest  jumped  to  his  feet,  hat  in  hand. 
"  Mother,  I  guess  I'll  go  down  to  Sliney's  and  bowl 
another  string.  I'll  be  back  again  soon.  I  don't 
know  why  it  is,  but  this  waiting  seems  to  get  on 

my  nerves.     It's  worse  than  anything  I've  ever 

It's  worse  even  than  before  a  big  game.  Do  you 
notice  it,  mother?  " 

His  mother  stared  at  him  an  instant.  There  was 
a  sudden  uncharacteristic  grimness  in  her  simple 
"  Yes,  I  notice  it,  Ernie." 

"  I  hope  that  you  don't  mind  my  leaving,  mother. 
It  isn't  that  I  want  to  lie  down  on  the  job.  But 
you  see " 

"  No,  I  don't  mind,"  Mrs.  Martin  said  mechan- 
ically. 

"  If  I  could  be  of  any  use,  I'd  stay — gladly. 
I'd " 

"  I  know,  Ernie,"  Mrs.  Martin  said,  still  per- 
functorily. Her  eyes  showed  that  she  was  not  lis- 
tening to  her  son. 

"  Good-by,  mother."     Ernest  kissed  his  mother. 


278     Phoebe  and  the  Most  Important  Bird 

The  door  closed  on  Ernest  for  the  second  time;  in 
an  instant  his  rapid  gait  had  lost  him  in  the  night. 

Mr.  Martin  shuffled  the  uncompleted  Napoleon 
layout.    He  went  back  to  Canfield. 

"  What  time  is  it,  Edward?  "  Mrs.  Martin  asked. 

11  Twenty  to  eleven,"  Mr.  Martin  replied  in- 
stantly. 

"  Oh!  "  There  was  in  Mrs.  Martin's  tone  a  note 
of  disappointment  fairly  poignant.  "  I  wouldn't  let 
myself  look  at  the  clock  before.  I  hoped  it  was 
later.     I  guess  I'll  go  upstairs  now." 

Mr.  Martin  shuffled  and  dealt,  and  dealt  and 
shuffled.  Red  cards  paired  themselves  with  black 
cards.  Black  cards  paired  themselves  with  red 
cards.  Needed  aces  came  unexpectedly  to  the  sur- 
face of  the  pack  and  superfluous  kings  retired  with 
their  retainers  to  oblivion.  Many  games  were  lost 
almost  at  the  beginning.  Many  more  were  lost  with 
victory  just  in  sight.  And  all  the  time  the  quiet  in 
the  house  slowly  seeped  away;  and  confusion  boiled 
in  its  place. 

After  a  long  absence  Mrs.  Martin  came  down 
again. 

Mr.  Martin's  eyes  leaped  to  her  face,  found  his 
question  answered  there.  All  the  radiance  had 
gone  from  Mrs.  Martin's  pallid  mask  and  many 
shadows  and  lines  had  come  into  it.  She  did  not 
once  address  Mr.  Martin,  and  she  did  not  once  sit 
down — she  walked.  Through  the  hall,  into  the  liv- 
ing-room, back  to  the  dining-room,  into  the  hall 
again,  she  completed  her  round  scores  of  times.    At 


Phoebe  and  the  Most  Important  Bird     279 

regular  intervals,  Mr.  Martin  stopped,  his  hand 
dead  among  the  cards. 

"  Bertha,  don't  you  think  we'd  better  call  Dr. 
Bush?  "  he  would  ask. 

And  "  No,"  Mrs.  Martin  always  replied.  "  He 
knows  when  to  come." 

Presently  the  automobile  chur-r-ed  out  of  tf^e  dis- 
tance, chugged  up  to  the  door.  Mr.  Martin  stopped 
midway  in  his  deal.  Mrs.  Martin  paused  midway 
across  the  hall.  "  Well,  well,"  Dr.  Bush  said  after 
his  first  swift  look  at  the  two  faces,  "  glad  I  came 
when  I  did.  I  see  my  real  work  is  down  here."  He 
bounded  up  the  stairs.  A  door  opened.  There 
came  through  it  Tug's  voice,  welcoming,  Miss  Bur- 
ton's voice,  inquiring,  Phoebe's 

The  door  shut.  Again — and  again  with  a  sudden 
serene  quiet — the  whole  house  responded  to  the  doc- 
tor's soothing  executive  presence. 

After  a  while,  Dr.  Bush  came  downstairs. 

"  Everything's  fine  as  a  fiddle.  Couldn't  be  better. 
Guess  I've  come  to  stay  this  time,  though.  Black 
jack  on  your  red  queen,  Ed.  It  isn't  going  to  be 
as  long  as  I  thought  it  was.  A  couple  of  tens  would 
help  now,  all  right.  Mrs.  Martin,  you'd  better  ask 
Theresa  to  make  some  coffee  for  you  two.  Red 
seven  on  your  black  eight,  Ed.  That  helps  a  lot. 
By  Jove,  you've  done  it." 

Mrs.  Martin  drifted  in  the  direction  of  the 
kitchen. 

"  Any  danger,  Allen?  "  Mr.  Martin  asked. 

"  Danger!  "  Dr.  Bush  snorted.     "  Not  a  bit.     I 


280     Phoebe  and  the  Most  Important  Bird 

tell  you  Phoebe's  got  the  constitution  of  a  horse. 
I  know  all  about  her.  Remember,  Ed,  I  brought 
Phoebe  into  the  world.    Who's  that — oh,  Ernest!  " 

11  Sliney's  closed,"  Ernest  said  drearily.  Ernest 
was  white — whiter  than  when  he  left — and  his  figure 
sagged  to  match  his  voice.  "  I  had  half  a  mind  to 
go  in  town.  But,  somehow,  I  couldn't.  Oh, 
mother! "  Ernest  stared  at  Mrs.  Martin  as  she 
emerged  from  the  hall.     "  How's  Phoebe?  " 

"  She's  all  right,  Ernest,"  Dr.  Bush  answered 
before  Mrs.  Martin  could  speak.  "  Everything  is 
going  just  as  well  as  it  possibly  can." 

u  Mother,"  Ernest  begged,  "  isn't  there  some- 
thing I  can  do  ?  You  know  this  waiting  gets  on  my 
nerves  so — if  I  could  only  get  busy." 

"  Ernest,"  his  mother  answered — and  the  occa- 
sion was  a  rare  one  in  which  she  addressed  her  son 
without  the  diminutive  of  his  name.  "  Ernest,  the 
thing  that  you  can  do  that  will  help  me  most  is  to 
march  straight  home  and  go  to  bed." 

Ernest  considered  this  and  for  a  moment  with 
obvious  sense  of  hurt.  "  All  right,"  he  said  after 
a  while,  "  I'll  go.  But  you'll  surely  'phone  me  if 
you  need  me?  " 

"  Yes,  Ernie,"  his  mother  answered  patiently, 
"  I'll  'phone  you." 

"  And  you'll  let  me  know  just  as  soon " 

"  Yes,  Ernie,  I'll  let  you  know,"  his  mother 
agreed. 

11  And  you  don't  think  I'm  a  quitter?  " 

11  Of  course  not,"  his  mother  reassured  him. 


Phoebe  and  the  Most  Important  Bird     281 

"  You  see — it's  the  waiting,"  Ernest  explained 
again. 

"  Ernie,"  his  mother  said,  and  again  there  was 
a  touch  of  grimness  in  her  tone.  "  A  woman's  life 
is  all  waiting.  I  don't  remember  a  single  day  in  my 
whole  existence  that  I  haven't  been  waiting — and 
waiting — and  waiting  for  something  that  I  couldn't 
possibly  hurry!  " 

Ernest  walked  to  the  door.  With  his  hand  on 
the  knob,  he  turned  back.  The  hall-light  glittered  on 
his  wet  eyelashes.  "  Would  you  like  to  know  what 
I  think  of  all  this?  "  he  asked  in  a  dogged  tone. 
"  Well,  I'll  tell  you.  I  think  it's  a  hell  of  a  busi- 
ness." 

"  Yes,  Ernie,"  Mrs.  Martin  said — and  the  grim- 
ness had  deepened  in  her  voice,  "  but  what  you 
think  about  it  won't  change  things  any.  It  always 
has  been  this  way  and  it  always  will  be." 

The  door  closed  for  the  last  time  on  Ernest. 

"  Well,"  said  Dr.  Bush,  "  I  guess  I'll  take  an- 
other look-see." 

He  strolled  leisurely  upstairs.  Mrs.  Martin  fol- 
lowed, her  toes  touching  his  heels. 

A  long  time  passed. 

Mrs.  Martin  came  downstairs.  "  Don't  ask  me," 
she  answered  Mr.  Martin's  look.  She  resumed  her 
monotonous  pacing — but  now  she  almost  ran.  Sud- 
denly a  door  opened — it  was  the  door  leading  from 
the  dining-room  to  the  kitchen.  Halfway  across 
the  table,  Mr.  Martin's  hand  stopped  as  if  it  had 
been  pinned  there  with  a  knife. 


282     Phoebe  and  the  Most  Important  Bird 

"  I  told  you  to  keep  that  back-stairs  door — 
shut!  "  Mrs.  Martin  hissed.  Theresa  deposited  the 
coffee-tray,  hurried  away  panic-stricken. 

Ignoring  the  coffee,  Mr.  Martin  walked  into  the 
dining-room,  opened  a  door  in  the  sideboard,  fum- 
bled among  the  bottles  there.  He  poured  out  a 
glass  of  whisky. 

Mrs.  Martin  poured  a  cup  of  coffee,  drank  it 
almost  at  a  gulp,  disappeared  upstairs. 

Mr.  Martin  returned  to  his  cards. 

But  now  many  things  happened. 

Mrs.  Martin  came  down.  Tug  came  down,  di- 
sheveled, ghastly-faced,  tagging  Mrs.  Martin,  beg- 
ging for  reassurance. 

After  a  while  they  went  upstairs  together. 

A  faint  tap  sounded  at  the  front  door.  Mr.  Mar- 
tin opened  it  to  Mrs.  Warburton,  who  stood  sway- 
ing, her  cheeks  streaked  with  tears.  In  the  back- 
ground drooped  Mr.  Warburton — white  and  anx- 
ious-looking. 

Mrs.  Martin  came  down  again. 

Tug  came  down — a  Tug,  utterly  wilted,  who  put 
his  head  on  his  mother's  shoulder  and  frankly  cried 
— a  Tug  who,  at  last  forcing  composure,  sent  his 
gaze  again  and  again  in  dumb  entreaty  to  Mrs. 
Martin's  face. 

After  a  while  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Warburton  left. 

Mrs.  Martin  went  upstairs. 

Tug  went  upstairs. 

Mr.  Martin  turned  to  his  cards  again. 


Phoebe  and  the  Most  Important  Bird     283 

Another  long  wait,  and  Dr.  Bush  came  down — 
still  dynamic,  still  cheery — but  a  little  less  bustling 
and  energetic.  He  rapidly  drank  two  cups  of  coffee 
and  went  upstairs  again. 

Another  wait — the  longest  of  all — and  Mrs.  Mar- 
tin returned.  Apparently  she  had  no  strength  left 
for  pacing  the  room.  She  fell  into  a  chair,  her  head 
in  her  hands,  her  hands  over  her  ears.  Mr.  Martin 
dealt  and  re-dealt  the  cards.  And  the  house  rang 
with  the  din  of  a  battle  in  which  Life  fought,  hand- 
to-hand,  with  Death. 

Suddenly — it  was  as  if  a  new  turmoil  had  forced 
itself  into  the  saturated  air — came  a  change.  Mrs. 
Martin's  hands  came  down  from  her  ears.  Mr. 
Martin's  hands  dropped  the  half-dealt  pack.  Mrs. 
Martin  lifted  her  head  and  listened.  Mr.  Martin 
dropped  his  head  and  listened.  Everything  was 
slowing  up.  The  house  seemed  to  be  settling  towards 
silence.  It  came — complete  silence — the  silence  of 
the  vacuum.  Mr.  Martin's  watch  rang  like  a  gun. 
The  hall-clock  boomed  like  a  cannon.  The  silence 
changed — it  thickened,  solidified,  became  a  tangible 
thing — adamantine — terrifying.     And  then 

A  sound  tore  through  it.  It  was  a  little  sound. 
And  yet  it  had  tremendous  character.  It  was  not  a 
moan,  or  a  groan,  or  a  wail.  It  was  a  yell.  And 
it  was  a  yell,  component  of  many  emotions,  sur- 
prise, perplexity,  dismay,  indignation,  wrath.  It 
was  lusty,  and  yet  it  was  the  voice  of  weakness. 

Mr.  Martin  did  not  move.  But  Mrs.  Martin 
did.     She  became  motion  itself.     She  did  not  run 


284     Phoebe  and  the  Most  Important  Bird 

nor  fly,  she  floated.  She  floated  with  an  unimagina- 
ble swiftness,  like  a  feather  on  a  cyclone.  It  was 
as  if  she  were  sucked  up  the  broad  stairway,  borne 
away  by  some  mysterious  magnetic  current. 

Mr.  Martin  waited,  without  stirring  from  the 
position  in  which  she  had  left  him,  waited — waited 
— waited 

And  then,  suddenly,  Mrs.  Martin  appeared  on 
the  stairs  again.  Her  face  was  clay  and  charcoal, 
but  her  eyes  were  moons.  She  carried  a  bundle  in 
her  arms.  Mr.  Martin's  eyes  fixed  on  it.  It  was 
little  and  white  and  soft.  Sounds  came  from  it — 
peeps — as  if  it  held  a  bird,  new-hatched.  Mrs.  Mar- 
tin drew  a  veil  of  fluff  away  from  the  sounds  and 
Mr.  Martin  looked  at  what  she  displayed. 

"  Phoebe's  little  girl,  Edward!"  Mrs.  Martin 
breathed. 

She  placed  the  bundle  in  Mr.  Martin's  arms. 

Mr.  Martin  sat  for  a  long  time  looking  into  the 
face  of  his  granddaughter. 

Dr.  Bush  came  down.  Mr.  Martin  stared  at  him, 
wordless. 

"  She's  all  right,"  Dr.  Bush  said.  "  Our  only 
problem  now  will  be  to  keep  Phoebe  in  bed.  It's 
a  fine  baby,  too — strong  as  an  ox — Phoebe's  going 
to  have  a  handful." 

Mrs.  Martin  had  accomplished  another  of  her 
mysterious  appearances.  "  She's  a  beautiful  baby, 
doctor,"  she  said,  taking  the  white  bundle  from 
her  husband's  arms.     u  Beautiful !     The  image  of 


Phoebe  and  the  Most  Important  Bird     285 

Ernie !  "    She  disappeared,  trailing  whispered  baby- 
talk. 

"  Phoebe  says  she  wants  to  see  you,  Ed,"  Dr. 
Bush  went  on.  "  She  won't  rest  well  unless  she 
does.     Now  hold  on  to  yourself,  old  man." 

11  Oh,  I'm  all  right,  Allen." 

Mr.  Martin  walked  up  the  stairs,  walked  through 
the  hall,  walked  into  Phoebe's  big,  yellow-and-white 
front  room,  walked  to  the  foot  of  the  bed.  The 
dawn  was  coming  in  at  the  window,  but  the  electric- 
light  was  still  on.  It  shone  on  two  heads  on  the 
pillow — one,  tiny,  pinky,  bare  as  an  eggshell,  the 
other 

Was  this  still,  spent,  sagging  creature  Phoebe? 
Two  braids  meandered  across  the  white  pillow.  The 
light  tangled  in  them,  flashing  glints  of  gold;  but 
about  her  brow  the  hair  was  damp  and  dark.  One 
curl  had  glued  itself  in  a  wet  black  spiral  against 
her  forehead.  The  dimple  under  her  eye  was  ironed 
out.  Her  lower  lip  hung  slack.  Yet  how  tiny  she 
looked,  how  young,  how  innocent  and  helpless. 
Never  in  her  little-girlhood  had  she  been  more  a 

little  girl.    The  heavy  lids  stirred,  lifted Was 

this  star-faced  woman  Phoebe?  Her  eyes  were 
twin  pools  of  light.  All  the  joy  in  the  universe 
lay  in  them.  Joy — and  a  something  that  soared 
beyond  it.  Phoebe  had  gone  for  a  while  into  a  dif- 
ferent world;  she  was  still  living  there.  An  instant 
she  looked  at  her  father.  Then  she  spoke.  Her 
words  came  dead  between  unfamiliar  weak  pauses; 
but  she  was  all  Phoebe. 


286     Phoebe  and  the  Most  Important  Bird 

"Pretty — snappy — work — Mr.  Martin!"  she 
said.  And  then,  "  Do — you — love — my — little — 
girl — father — dearest?  " 

When  Mr.  Martin  answered,  his  words  came 
slowly,  too. 

Phoebe's  look  of  holding  herself  in  reserve  for 
her  father's  coming  melted  into  a  radiant  smile. 
The  smile  died  slowly  as  she  drifted  into  sleep. 

"  Dr.  Bush  says  he'd  rather  we  wouldn't  stay, 
father,"  Mrs.  Martin  was  saying  next.  "  He 
doesn't  want  that  there  should  be  any  excitement  in 
the  house  when  Phoebe  wakes  up.  He  wants  me  to 
go  home  and  to  take  you  home,  too." 

11  All  right,"  Mr.  Martin  answered  docilely. 

Mrs.  Martin  talked  all  the  way  home;  her  hus- 
band made  no  comment.  He  followed  her  lead  the 
whole  way.  It  was  she  who  started  their  expedition 
across  streets,  she  who  initially  made  the  cor- 
ners, she  who  maneuvered  the  turn  in  at  their  gate, 
she  who  unlocked  the  door  and  opened  it. 

"  You  go  right  upstairs,"  Mrs.  Martin  said  in 
a  whisper.  The  next  instant  her  voice  vibrated  in 
joyous  full  volume  through  the  house.  "  Wake  up, 
Uncle  Ernie !     Phoebe's  got  a  little  daughter." 

"  How's  Phoebe?  "  Ernest  called  back. 

"  All  right!  Phoebe  says  for  you  to  come  over 
to-morrow  and  give  your  niece  her  first  tennis- 
lesson." 

When  Mrs.  Martin  entered  their  big  chamber, 
Mr.  Martin  was  sitting  in  the  big  chair  there.    Out- 


4 


Phoebe  and  the  Most  Important  Bird     287 

side  the  birds  were  singing.  The  dawn  had  come 
full.  Mr.  Martin's  eyes  were  closed,  but  from 
under  his  lids  the  tears  were  coursing  down  his 
face. 

"  Oh,  Edward,"  Mrs.  Martin  said— and,  for  the 
first  time  that  night  her  voice  broke.  "  Don't  take 
it  like  this — please  don't.  It's  not  as  bad  as  it 
seems.  Although "  Unaccountably  she  re- 
verted to  the  grimness  that  had  characterized  her 
all  the  evening,  "  it's  as  bad  as  it  possibly  can  be. 
But  what  I  mean  is — what  men  can't  understand — 
it's  natural — the  suffering  all  counts — it's  for  some- 
thing. You  forget  all  the  pain  when  they  put  the 
baby  in  your  arms.  You  don't  mind  what  you've 
been  through.  You're  glad.  You'd  go  through  it 
again.  And  Phoebe  didn't  have  such  a  bad  time. 
Oh,  don't  take  it  so  hard." 

11  It  isn't  that,"  Mr.  Martin  said.  "  It  isn't 
Phoebe  exactly,  although  it  is  Phoebe,  of  course. 
Phoebe's  all  right  now — I  know  that.  She's  strong 
— she'll  get  well.  I— it  isn't  Phoebe — Bertha,  it's 
only  that  I've  been  remembering  you  and — Bertha 
— how  did  I  live  through  it  twenty-six  years  ago?  " 


CHAPTER  XI 

TILL  HE  GETS  HIM  A  WIFE 

"T)ERTHA,"  Mr.  Martin's  letter  had  run,  "I 
J3  am  delighted  with  the  news.  We  certainly 
have  a  great  deal  to  be  thankful  for;  Phoebe  mar- 
ried to  a  man  whom  we  trust  and  love  and  now 
Ernest  getting  engaged  to  the  nicest  kind  of  girl. 
Give  her  my  love  and  tell  her  how  much  I  admire 
her  and  how  glad  I  am  that  we  are  going  to  have 
her  for  a  daughter." 

"  Do  you  know  what  Ernest  always  talks  about, 
Mrs.  Martin,  when  we're  alone?  "  Sylvia  asked. 

Mrs.  Martin's  lips  drew  together  in  what  was 
palpably  an  effort  to  smile.  But  she  looked  straight 
into  the  happy  eyes  of  the  girl  who  had  just  an- 
nounced her  engagement  to  Ernest.  "  I  haven't  any 
idea,  I'm  sure,"  she  said. 

u  You!  "  Sylvia  said,  gently  triumphant.  "  Al- 
ways you — nothing  but  you."  She  paused  for  an 
imperceptible  instant.  But  her  earnestness  brought 
no  answering  gleam  into  Mrs.  Martin's  eyes.  Mrs. 
Martin  continued  to  hold  her  faint  smile;  it  looked 
as  if  it  had  petrified  on  her  face.  "  I  guess  you've 
no  idea  how  Ernest  adores  you,"  Sylvia  went  on, 
still  softly  enthusiastic.     u  He  says  that  when  he 

288 


Till  He  Gets  Him  a  Wife  289 

was  a  little  boy  he  thought  you  were  the  most  beau- 
tiful woman  in  the  world.  He  never  knew  that  any 
woman  could  be  as  beautiful  as  you  until  he  went 
to  the  circus.  He  says  that  you've  always  had  the 
most  wonderful  control  over  the  whole  family.  He 
doesn't  remember,  he  says,  that  you  ever  punished 
him  or  scolded  him;  but  he  would  no  more  have 
thought  of  disobeying  you  than — than "  Syl- 
via's speech  was  full  of  hesitancies  which  always 
ended  in  endearing  little  futilities  of  phrase,  gentle 
compromises  of  emotion  with  expression — "  than 
anything,"  she  finally  brought  out.  "  Ernest  says 
he  disobeyed  his  father  lots  of  times — openly  and 
on  the  quiet — but  he  never  disobeyed  you  once. 
He  says  it  never  entered  his  head  that  he  could. 
He  told  me  that  the  first  year  he  was  in  Princeton 
he  was  always  comparing  the  men's  mothers  with 
you  and  he  never  found  one  that  wasn't  an — an — an 
also-ran."  Sylvia  hesitated  a  long  time  before  she 
took  this  verbal  plunge  into  her  lover's  slang. 

Mrs.  Martin's  mechanical  smile  still  held  its  own. 

"  Ernest  says "  Sylvia  started  on. 

u  Everything's  ready,  Sylvia,"  Mrs.  Parker  called 
from  the  other  side  of  the  room  where,  while  she 
prepared  the  tea,  she  had  been  talking  with  Cousin 
Debbie. 

The  sisters  busied  themselves  with  the  cups. 
Cousin  Debbie  started  one  of  her  cheerful,  chirping 
monologues.  But  Mrs.  Martin,  now  that  there  was 
no  necessity  of  talking  or  listening,  relaxed  for  an 
instant.    Every  line  of  her  figure  sagged.    Her  face 


290  Till  He  Gets  Him  a  Wife 

fell  into  incipient  old-age  masses.  Occasionally  her 
dull  eyes  went  to  Sylvia's  face,  to  Marian's,  back  to 
Sylvia's. 

There  was  a  strong  family  resemblance  between 
the  girls,  although  they  were  differing  blonde  types. 
Mrs.  Parker  was  more  flaxen  than  Sylvia,  taller, 
thicker,  a  little  bovine.  Everything  about  her  was 
big  and  tranquil.  A  thick  crown  of  smooth  hair 
coiled  above  her  broad,  placid  brow;  large  medi- 
tative gray  eyes  shone  beneath  it.  Her  mouth,  even, 
was  ample  and  quiet.  Maternity  had  left  its  traces 
on  her  figure;  and  at  the  temples  her  hair  had 
frosted  a  little.  Superficially,  she  was  a  more  im- 
pressive figure  than  Sylvia.  Yet  Sylvia  would  al- 
ways shine  like  a  light  in  a  shady  place.  Now,  for 
instance,  she  showed  in  an  extra  thinness  and  white- 
ness the  fatigues  of  her  long  year  of  teaching.  But 
perhaps  she  had  never  seemed  more  ethereal.  It 
was  as  if  her  happiness  were  an  interior  flame  which 
glowed  in  a  pale-silver  light  through  her  delicate 
skin,  and  flooded  in  a  deep-blue  radiance  into  her 
soft  eyes.  It  seemed  actually  to  lick  the  air  in  the 
pale-gold  tendrils  of  her  filmy  hair. 

"Will  you  have  lemon  or  cream?"  Sylvia  was 
asking  presently.  "  And  how  many  lumps?" 
Marian  was  adding.  And,  "  Oh,  how  good  that 
tastes!"  Cousin  Debbie  was  commenting.  Debbie 
did  not  relax.  Even  as  she  drank,  the  sharp  glances 
of  her  bright  brown  little  eyes  were  leaping  over 
her  cup  and  darting  hither  and  yon. 

It  was  a  modest  establishment — the  little  half- 


Till  He  Gets  Him  a  Wife  291 

house  which  was  the  Parker  home  and  Sylvia's.  It 
showed  in  every  detail  the  brave  fight  which  the 
Gordon  girls  had  made  against  poverty.  The  pic- 
tures and  bric-a-brac,  few  but  rigorously  good,  the 
furniture,  simple  and  carefully  correct,  the  bare 
floor,  the  quiet  paper — all  these  things  did  their  best 
to  offset  the  effect  of  the  gilded  moldings  and  the 
carved  and  mirrored  mantels.  Everything  was  ex- 
quisitely neat,  and  yet  a  first  glance  showed  that  the 
children  played  all  over  the  house.  A  family  of 
dolls  huddled  together  on  the  couch.  A  tiny  tin 
engine  had  brought  a  line  of  cars  to  rest  within  the 
enclosure  of  the  gas-log  fireplace.  The  sisters  re- 
flected all  this  exquisite  care  and  order.  It  was  easy 
to  guess  that  no  hired  fingers  had  produced  the  un- 
lined,  unfolded  laundering — delicate  as  blown  glass 
— of  their  simple  shirt-waist  gowns.  There  was  an 
extra  touch  of  holiday  in  the  daffodils  which  lifted, 
Japanese  fashion,  out  of  broad  shallow  dishes. 

Mrs.  Martin  put  her  cup  down  after  a  while  and 
fumbled  in  her  muff.  "  Mr.  Martin  wanted  me  to 
tell  you,  Sylvia,  that  unless  you  preferred  something 
else,  he  would  like  to  give  you  for  an  engagement- 
gift  a  cedar  chest  like  the  one  he  gave  Phoebe." 

Sylvia's  smile  made  a  flash  of  lightning  whiter 
than  her  face.  "  Oh,  that  is  so  like  Mr.  Martin," 
she  said.  "  What  a  dear  thing  to  do !  I  should  love 
a  cedar  chest  more  than — more  than — anything  I 
can  think  of.  I — I — couldn't  have  had  one  other- 
wise." 

"  It   was   his    own    idea,"    Mrs.    Martin    added 


292  Till  He  Gets  Him  a  Wife 

scrupulously.  "  I  brought  my  gift  out  to-day."  She 
handed  the  little  package  to  Sylvia. 

"  Oh,  what  fun  it  is  being  engaged !  "  Sylvia  ex- 
claimed. "  Like  Christmas  all  the  time."  Her  tiny 
fingers  picked  carefully  at  the  bow  which  tied  the 
box  and,  as  if  the  instinct  of  order  were  ever  with 
her,  she  rolled  up  the  ribbon  and  smoothed  out  the 
tissue-paper  covering  before  she  opened  the  pack- 
age. "  Oh,  spoons!  "  she  exclaimed  in  a  delighted 
tone.  "  And  just  the  pattern  I  love!  How  did  you 
know  it,  Mrs.  Martin?  " 

44  Ernie  told  me,"  Mrs.  Martin  answered. 
14  Phoebe  thought  that  spoons  were  a  kind  of  com- 
monplace present — bromidic,  she  called  it.  But  I 
never  have  forgotten  the  experience  Mr.  Martin 
and  I  had  when  we  got  married.  I  calculated  that 
folks  would  surely  give  us  spoons.  And  so  I  didn't 
buy  any.  But  everybody  gave  us  forks,  and  so  when 
we  got  back  from  our  honeymoon  we  had  to  use 
tin  kitchen  spoons  on  the  table  until  I  could  get  into 
Boston  and  buy  some.  And  in  these  days,  when  you 
need  so  many  spoons " 

"  I  think  it  was  lovely  of  you,"  Sylvia  said. 
14  And  I  do  thank  you."  She  made  a  little  impulsive 
movement  toward  Mrs.  Martin.  But  she  checked 
it  halfway — perhaps  she  could  not  have  said  why. 

44  Mr.  Martin  will  be  at  home  Friday  night," 
Mrs.  Martin  went  on  with  the  mechanical  fidelity, 
to  what  was  palpably  a  cut-and-dried  recital,  of  a 
graphophone  to  its  record.  "  And  then  we're  both 
coming  over  to  see  you.     I  didn't  want  to  wait  so 


Till  He  Gets  Him  a  Wife  293 

long  myself."  Mrs.  Martin  was  not  telling  the 
exact  truth  here.  What  she  should  have  said  was: 
u  I  saw  that  Ernie  did  not  want  me  to  wait  so  long." 
She  paused  an  instant  and  visibly  cast  about  in  her 
mind  to  see  if  her  lesson  were  said.  "  Oh,"  she 
caught  herself  up.  "  And  then  Mr.  Martin  and  I 
want  you  to  visit  us  in  your  Easter  vacation.  Phoebe 
wants  you  to  come  right  to  her  as  soon  as  you've 
been  to  us.  But  I  hope  you'll  stay  a  week  with  us. 
I  guess  you'll  have  *o  make  up  your  mind  to  spend 
the  rest  of  the  spring  in  Maywood." 

"  Oh,  I  shall  just  love  that,"  Sylvia  said.  "  How 
kind  you  all  are  to  me." 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Mrs.  Martin.  "And  now 
we  must  be  going.  Debbie  is  taking  the  six  train 
to  North  Campion.  It  was  so  nice  that  she  could 
come  with  me." 

The  sisters  murmured  gentle  echoes  of  this  senti- 
ment. 

"  And  remember,  Sylvia,"  Mrs.  Martin  went  on, 
"  Phoebe  and  I  want  to  help  you  all  we  can  with 
your  sewing.     Bring  along  as  much  as  you  can." 

"  I  guess  it  won't  be  so  very  much,  Mrs.  Martin," 
Sylvia  said  bravely.  "  You  see — I'm — I'm — I'm  go- 
ing to  have  a  very  modest  trousseau" 

"  It's  much  better  that  way,"  Mrs.  Martin  came 
to  her  rescue.  "  It's  foolish  getting  so  much,  espe- 
cially when  styles  change  so.  Why,  Phoebe  told 
me  only  yesterday  that  she's  got  some  table-linen 
that  she's  never  used  yet,  and  now  she  never  will 
because  it's  so  out-of-date.    I  told  her  to  give  it  to 


294  Till  He  Gets  Him  a  Wife 

me."  Mrs.  Martin  emitted  a  spark  of  her  charac- 
teristic asteism.     "  I'd  be  very  grateful  for  it." 

"And  how  is  little  Bertha-Elizabeth?"  Marian 
asked. 

A  transient  gleam  flickered  in  Mrs.  Martin's  dead 
eyes.  "  Oh,  very  well,  thank  you.  She's  a  quiet 
little  thing,  you  know.  But  she's  never  sick.  Now 
we  must  go."  Mrs.  Martin  shook  hands  with 
Marian.  She  leaned  forward  and  touched  Sylvia's 
cheek  with  her  lips. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  her,  Marian?"  Sylvia 
asked  eagerly  after  their  guests  had  gone. 

14  Oh,  she's  a  lovely  woman,"  Marian  said  heart- 
ily. .  I  can  see  just  what  kind  of  mother  she's 
been.  She's  just  lived  for  her  children.  We  don't 
have  that  kind  nowadays.  I  don't  think  she  looks 
very  well,  though.  She  seems  sort  of — well,  listless." 

11  I  didn't  notice,"  Sylvia  said.  "  But  she  is 
lovely.  She's  always  been  so  kind  to  me.  And  you 
should  hear  the  things  Ernest  says  about  her."  Syl- 
via stopped  talking  suddenly  and  peered  anxiously 
about.  "  I  think  the  house  looked  pretty,  don't  you, 
Marian?  I  hope  the  dust  hasn't  rolled  up  under 
the  furniture  the  way  it  does."  Her  brow  puck- 
ered. "  Somehow  I  felt  sad  all  the  time  she  was 
here.  I  guess  it  was  because  I  kept  thinking  of 
mother  and  how  she  would  have  enjoyed  all  this. 
If  she  had  only  lived  a  few  years  longer!  Some- 
how, Marian,  it  seems  to  me  that  I  never  missed 
her  so  much  as  in  the  last  few  days." 

"  Well  now,  those  girls  are  neat  housekeepers,  I 


Till  He  Gets  Him  a  Wife  295 

tell  you!  "  Debbie  said,  as  soon  as  they  were  out  of 
earshot.  "  I  couldn't  see  a  speck  of  dust  or  dirt. 
The  mopboards  was  as  clean  as  a  whistle  and  you 
could  have  et  your  dinner  off  the  floor  anywhere. 
Mrs.  Parker's  a  pleasant  woman,  isn't  she?  And 
Sylvia'll  be  real  pretty  when  she  fills  out  a  little. 
But  she's  the  last  girl  in  the  world  that  I'd  have 
expected  Ernest  Martin  to  pick  out — I  must  say. 
I  thought  he'd  choose  somebody  terribly  stylish. 
Didn't  you  think  a  little  while  ago  that  he  was 
kinder  sweet  on  that  Florence  Marsh?" 

"  Yes,  I  did  hope — I — I — mean — for  a  while  it 
looked  as  if  he  was." 

"Well,"  Debbie  said  judicially,  "I  should  be 
mighty  glad  it  had  turned  out  this  way  if  he  was 
my  son.  Florence  Marsh  is  a  nice  girl,  but,  my 
grief! — she's  awful  homely.  My  land!  What 
queer  things  do  come  about!  Who'd  have  thought 
that  when  Phoebe  came  home  from  Marblehead  that 
time  so  crazy  about  a  girl  that  was  waiting  on  table 
at  the  hotel  there  that " 

"  Debbie!  "  Mrs.  Martin  said  peremptorily,  "  I 
don't  want  that  you  should  say  one  word  in  North 
Campion  about  Sylvia's  waiting  on  table.  That's 
all  past  and  forgotten  and  there's  no  reason  why 
anybody  should  know  anything  about  it." 

"  Well,  Bertha  Brooks !  Do  you  suppose  I  ever 
would? "  Debbie  exclaimed  in  a  shocked  tone. 

But  Mr.  Martin  came  home  unexpectedly  that 
very  night.     "  Well,"  he  said  after  he  had  kissed 


296  Till  He  Gets  Him  a  Wife 

his  wife,  "  this  is  news  about  Ernest,  isn't  it?  I 
finished  that  business  right  up  and  came  home.  I 
had  to.  I  hadn't  the  remotest  suspicion  of  any- 
thing of  the  sort.  Did  you  see  it  coming?  Or  was 
it  a  surprise  to  you?  " 

"  Yes,"  Mrs.  Martin  admitted  tonelessly,  "  it 
was  a  surprise  to  me."  She  gave  a  quick,  furtive 
look  at  her  husband.  "  What  do  you  think  about 
Ernie's  being  married  so  young,  Edward?  " 

"  Oh,  I'm  as  tickled  as  Punch,"  Mr.  Martin  said 
heartily.  "  I  believe  in  young  marriages,  mother — 
for  men.  I  think  a  man  ought  to  have  the  responsi- 
bility of  a  family  just  as  soon  as  he's  able  to  sup- 
port one.  And  Ernest  has  worked  like  a  beaver  for 
two  years.  Sylvia's  such  a  fine  girl,  too,  and  such 
a  plucky  one.  Lord,  how  she's  worked !  My  heart 
used  to  ache  for  her  when  she'd  start  right  in  teach- 
ing in  the  summer-school  the  moment  her  college- 
year  had  ended.    There's  real  stuff  in  Sylvia." 

"  Yes,  she's  a  heroine,"  Mrs.  Martin  agreed. 
"  I've  always  said  that." 

Mr.  Martin  kept  on.  "  I'm  glad  you  went  right 
over  there,  mother,  without  waiting  for  me  to  get 
home.    It  isn't  as  if  Sylvia  had  a  father  and  mother. 

But  those  two  girls  all  alone  like  that We  can 

call  together  to-morrow,  can't  we?  " 

11  Yes,  if  you  like.  Wasn't  your  train  late,  Ed- 
ward?" 

"  No.    I  stopped  to  see  the  baby." 

14  Was  she  awake  at  this  hour?  " 

14  Yes.     Delia  said  she'd  slept  right  through  the 


Till  He  Gets  Him  a  Wife  297 

whole  afternoon."  Mr.  Martin's  tired,  cinder- 
lined  face  lighted  up.  "  Knew  me  the  moment  she 
saw  me.  Began  doing  that  patty-cake  business 
without  my  saying  a  word  to  her.  Delia  says  she's 
begun  to  talk — and  she  put  her  through  some  little 
tricks.  Well,  I  suppose  it's  what  you-women  call 
talking.  But  I'd  hate  to  have  my  life  depend  on 
the  accuracy  with  which  I  translated  it.  She  didn't 
have  a  drop  of  sleep  in  her — jounced  up  and  down 
in  my  lap  until  she  tired  me  all  out.  I  got  her 
quieted  down  gradually  and  she  fell  asleep  in  my 
arms.  Phoebe  hadn't  got  in  yet,  but  I  left  word 
for  her  to  come  up  this  evening.  I  suppose  Phoebe's 
delighted  about  the  engagement." 

"  She  hasn't  talked  about  anything  else  since," 
Mrs.  Martin  replied.  "  Nor  Tug.  Tug  seems  very 
fond  of  Sylvia." 

"  Well,  Sylvia  shows  her  pluck  in  being  willing 
to  start  married  life  on  so  little.  It  isn't  as  if 
Ernest  could  offer  his  wife  what  Tug  offered 
Phoebe." 

Mrs.  Martin  bristled.  "  I  don't  know  what  more 
a  man  could  have  to  offer  a  woman  than  Ernie's 
got." 

"  Well — what  I  mean  is — Ernest  and  Sylvia  will 
have  to  count  the  pennies.  Phoebe  thinks  she  econ- 
omizes but  Sylvia's  really  got  to  do  it." 

Mrs.  Martin  remained  silent — her  lips  held  in 
tight  parallel  lines. 

"  And  her  courage!"  Mr.  Martin  went  on. 
"  Why,  just  think  of  the  strength  of  mind  it  meant 


298  Till  He  Gets  Him  a  Wife 

to  take  a  job  as  waitress  in  order  to  get  through 
college." 

"Edward! "  The  word  exploded  from  Mrs. 
Martin's  closed  lips.  Mr.  Martin  looked  at  her 
in  surprise.  M  Edward,  I  do  wish  that  you  wouldn't 
refer  to  Sylvia's  having  been  a  waitress.  Nobody 
knows  it  in  Maywood  but  Mrs.  Warburton  and  she's 
just  as  likely  to  have  forgotten  it." 

"  But— but— Bertha You  surely  don't  think 

it's  anything  to  be  ashamed  of." 

Mrs.  Martin's  eyes  dropped.  "  No,"  she  said 
with  a  slight  hesitation.  u  But  perhaps  if  Ernest 
has  children,  he  wouldn't  like  them  to  know  that 
their  mother  waited  on  table." 

"Well— but — why— I "  Mr.  Martin  actu- 
ally stuttered  in  his  bewilderment.  "  Good  Lord! 
If  I  were  Ernest,  I'd  be  proud  to  have  my  children 
know  it.  But  of  course  I  won't  make  any  reference 
to  it,  if  you  think  I'd  better  not.  I  remember  it 
shocked  your  people  to  find  out  that  I'd  worked  in 
a  machine-shop  for  a  while.  I  never  could  get  the 
hang  of  this  social  game  as  you-women  play  it. 
What  makes  anybody  somebody  and  what  makes 
him  nobody  is  beyond  me." 

"  It's  only,"  Mrs.  Martin  said  almost  inaudibly, 
11  that  I'm  thinking  of  Ernie's  children." 

And  then  a  silence  fell  between  them,  a  silence 
so  deep  that  it  lasted  until  the  whole  room  waked 
up  to  Phoebe's  brilliant,  forthright  presence. 

And  Phoebe  was  saying: 

14  Oh,  Father  Martin,  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you 


Till  He  Gets  Him  a  Wife  299 

— you  duck!  I've  missed  you  terribly.  And  what 
do  you  think  of  your  granddaughter  learning  to  talk 
while  you  were  gone  ?  I  hear  that  you  and  she  had 
a  great  gab-fest  this  afternoon.  And  think  of  Ern 
Martin's  being  engaged!  Why,  it  seems  only  yes- 
terday that  I  was  working  you  for  a  football  suit 
for  him.  And  to  Sylvia  of  all  people !  Isn't  it  the 
luckiest  thing  that  mother  and  I  saved  Ern  from 
Pauline  Marr  that  time?  Little  I  wotted  the  service 
I  was  doing  my  best  friend.  I'm  perfectly  dippy 
about  the  whole  thing.  I've  always  been  crazy  about 
Sylvia,  you  know.  She's  the  only  person  on  earth 
that's  ever  bossed  me.  But  I've  always  taken  any- 
thing from  her.  There's  something  so  angelically 
darling  about  Sylvia." 

And  Tug  was  saying: 

"  Hullo,  dad!  Isn't  that  a  great  kid  we've  got 
up  to  the  house?  Talking  in  seven  different  un- 
known languages  at  twenty  months.  I'm  afraid  the 
scientists  will  get  on  and  want  to  experiment  with 
her.  Oh,  sure !  Sylvia's  been  my  candidate  from 
the  start.  Some  bean  on  that  girl,  let  me  tell  you. 
Easy  to  look  at,  too." 

Last  of  all,  Ernest  had  joined  them — an  Ernest 
whose  eyes  shone  with  a  new  joy,  whose  movements 
seemed  to  throw  off  electric  sparks  of  triumph. 

And  Ernest  was  saying: 

"Thanks,  father!  You  betchu!  Oh,  Lord, 
Phoebe,  what  a  question!  I  don't  know  when  it 
began — the  first  time  I  saw  her,  I  guess.  Considera- 
ble conch,  believe  me!    Sure,  I  admit  it.    I've  got 


300  Till  He  Gets  Him  a  Wife 

the  worst  case  on  record.  I  nearly  stopped  in  the 
rush-hour  in  the  subway  yesterday  to  tell  the  ticket- 
chopper  all  about  it.  That's  all  right,  Tug.  You 
can't  bring  the  blush  of  modesty  to  this  damask 
cheek.  I  glory  in  my  shame.  I'm  going  to  have 
an  electric  sign  put  out  in  front  of  the  house — 
ME  FOR  SYLVIA— in  eight-foot  letters." 

And  last  of  all,  Mrs.  Martin  herself  was  saying: 
"  Edward,  I  guess  I'll  have  the  florist  come  up 
to-morrow  and  lay  out  a  plot  of  ground  for  me. 
I've  always  thought  that  sometime  I'd  have  a  rose- 
garden  like  Aunt  Mary's.  I  sort  of  feel  as  if  it 
would  do  me  good  to  work  out-of-doors  this  spring." 

This  was  the  first  day  of  the  three  months  which 
came  between  the  announcement  of  Ernest's  en- 
gagement and  Ernest's  wedding. 

It  was  a  strange  three  months  for  Mrs.  Martin. 
Nothing  in  it  was  as  it  had  ever  been  before.  Ernest 
lived  in  the  house  exactly  as  he  had  lived  ever  since 
his  boyhood ;  but  he  was  no  more  a  part  of  the  family 
life  than  the  sunbeams  which  made  their  daily  round 
of  the  windows.  He  might  have  been  a  disem- 
bodied spirit — the  spirit  of  happiness.  He  spent 
every  evening  with  Sylvia.  When  he  came  down  to 
breakfast  in  the  morning,  his  eyes  still  sparkled 
with  what  of  her  was  left  over  from  the  night  be- 
fore. When  he  came  home  to  dinner  at  night,  his 
eyes  glowed  with  the  anticipation  of  her.  Ernest 
whistled  and  sang  more  than  ever  before  in  his  life; 
but  he  talked  less. 


Till  He  Gets  Him  a  Wife  301 

His  intimacy  with  his  mother  seemed  to  be  utterly 
suspended.  Before  his  engagement  was  announced, 
he  used  to  make  to  Mrs.  Martin's  room  the  instant 
he  got  into  the  house,  no  matter  what  the  hour. 
However  deep  Mrs.  Martin's  sleep,  his  step  outside 
her  door  always  waked  her.  They  would  talk  for 
a  few  moments  before  Ernest  went  to  bed.  Now  he 
walked  straight  to  his  room — as  if  present  experi- 
ence were  so  magic,  so  precious,  so  sacred  that  he 
could  not  share  it  with  mortal  being.  Sometimes, 
without  warning,  Ernest  would  throw  his  arms  about 
his  mother  and  treat  her  to  a  monster  hug.  Mrs. 
Martin  never  returned  his  embrace,  although  she 
always  submitted  patiently.  But  often  in  the  midst 
of  it,  Ernest's  arms  would  fall  away,  his  eyes  would 
grow  absent. 

"  My  goodness!  I  never  saw  two  people  so  much 
in  love  as  Ern  Martin  and  Sylvia  Gordon,"  Phoebe 
exclaimed  again  and  again.  "  Mother,  there's  some- 
thing positively  pathetic  about  their  absorption  in 
each  other.  I  bet  I  know  the  answer,  too.  Sylvia's 
never  had  a  real  home  since  her  mother  died.  She's 
been  pushed  from  pillar  to  post  and  from  post  back 
to  pillar  again — until  now  the  idea  that  she's  going 
to  have  a  place  of  her  own  seems  like  a  fairy-tale 
come  true.  She  told  me  the  other  day  that  she's 
made  out  a  list  of  things  that  she's  not  to  do,  she's 
so  afraid  of  growing  into  a  careless  wife — things 
like  not  looking  pretty  at  breakfast  and  not  being 
trim  in  regard  to  belts  and  neckwear,  and  above  all 
not  getting  round-shouldered.    Ever  since  she's  been 


302  Till  He  Gets  Him  a  Wife 

earning  her  own  money,  she's  bought  things  with 
the  idea  of  having  a  home  sometime.  Why,  mother, 
she  has  the  darlingest  collection  of  ivory  elephants 
— tiny — but  no  two  the  same  size;  and  several  beau- 
tiful, foreign  photographs,  exquisitely  framed.  And 
the  loveliest  Wedgewood  tea-set — she  bought  it 
piece  by  piece — and  a  lot  of  Chinese  and  Japanese 
things  that  she's  picked  up  here  and  there  that  are 
so  different  from  anything  you  see  in  anybody  else's 
house.  She  said  she  always  thought  she  was  des- 
tined to  be  an  old  maid;  but  she  intended  to  have 
a  home  of  her  own  just  the  same,  and  the  moment 
she  could  afford  it  she  was  going  to  adopt  two  chil- 
dren. Let  me  tell  you,  Mother  Martin,  there  won't 
be  a  place  in  this  town  so  individual,  so  original,  and 
so  quaint  as  Sylvia's.  But  what  I  can't  under- 
stand is  Em  Martin' s  going  so  wild  about  domestic- 
ity. It  isn't  as  if  he  hadn't  always  had  a  good 
home.    How  do  you  account  for  it,  mother?  " 

Mrs.  Martin  replied  that  she  had  not  thought  of 
the  matter. 

Superficially  Mrs.  Martin  seemed  occupied.  The 
rose-garden  proved  an  ambitious  affair.  And  she 
insisted  on  doing  all  the  work  in  it  herself.  Early 
and  late  she  spaded,  weeded,  snipped,  and  watered. 
The  long  hours  in  the  open  air  tanned  her  pre- 
maturely. This  partially  concealed  the  fact  that  she 
was  steadily  growing  thinner. 

And  all  the  while  things  were  happening — it  was 
as  though  Event  were  in  collusion  with  Time — 
which  brought  the  wedding-day  nearer  and  nearer. 


Till  He  Gets  Him  a  Wife  303 

The  first  thing  was  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Martin's  joint 
call  on  Sylvia.  This  time  Mrs.  Martin  remained 
silent;  it  was  Mr.  Martin  who  did  all  the  talking. 
And  Sylvia  sat,  her  deep  eyes  fixed  on  Mr.  Martin's 
face,  her  cheeks  pink  with  happiness,  her  delicate 
lips  curved  into  a  happy  smile. 

The  next  thing  was  Phoebe's  and  Tug's  engage- 
ment-call, conducted  on  Phoebe's  part  with  so  much 
mock  grandeur  that  Sylvia  laughed  without  ceasing 
all  the  time  she  stayed. 

The  next  thing  was  Sylvia's  visit.  It  came  in 
her  spring  vacation  and  lasted  ten  days.  Then  there 
was  nothing  all  day  long  but  talk  of  the  marriage; 
the  air  was  saturated  with  it.  Early  in  the  morn- 
ing, Phoebe  would  arrive,  wheeling  a  perambulator 
in  which  little  Bertha-Elizabeth,  sucking  a  fat  clan- 
destine thumb,  lay  concealed  under  a  mountain  of 
sewing  materials.  Or  else,  Phoebe  insisted  on  bear- 
ing Mrs.  Martin  and  Sylvia  away  to  her  house  for 
luncheon.  At  dinner,  Ernest  asked  questions  that 
had  to  do  only  with  their  progress.  Immediately 
afterwards,  in  order  to  correct  the  confining  effect  of 
her  teaching,  he  took  Sylvia  for  a  long  auto-ride. 
When  they  came  back,  Phoebe  and  Tug  were  al- 
ways there.  The  marriage-talk  immediately  started 
up  again. 

Sylvia  shone  with  the  same  strange  preoccupied 
happiness  which  distinguished  Ernest.  Her  eyes 
seemed  not  to  see  what  their  gaze  fell  upon,  unless 
it  happened  to  be  Ernest;  then  their  dreams  melted 
to  an  angelic  tenderness.    At  no  time  a  talker,  she 


304  Till  He  Gets  Him  a  Wife 

seemed  more  quiet  than  ever.  But  when  Ernest 
drew  her  out  about  their  housekeeping  plans,  her 
eyes  flitted  instinctively  from  Mrs.  Martin's  dead 
face  and  came  to  rest  on  Mr.  Martin's  look  of  a 
smiling  sympathy.  Those  two  had  many  long  talks 
together. 

From  the  Martin  house,  Sylvia  went  to  Phoebe. 
But  it  was  as  if  she  had  left  a  little  golden  shadow 
of  herself  in  her  lover's  family.  Ernest  became 
more  somnambulistic  than  ever.  He  arose  a  half- 
hour  earlier  in  the  morning  that  he  might  go  into 
Boston  on  the  same  train  with  her.  He  break- 
fasted with  his  eyes  on  the  clock.  That  was  the  last 
his  mother  saw  of  him  for  the  day.  He  dined  every 
night  at  Phoebe's. 

By  this  time  Mrs.  Martin's  rose-bushes  were  in 
luxuriant  leaf. 

The  next  thing  was  the  selection  of  their  home. 
Ernest  and  Sylvia  looked  at  everything  in  May- 
wood  before  they  decided  on  the  tiny  apartment 
which  balanced  perfectly  between  their  income  and 
their  desire.  Mr.  Martin  had  announced  that  he 
would  furnish  their  dining-room  as  a  wedding-gift. 
Sylvia  and  Ernest  began  to  make  the  rounds  of  the 
dealers  in  antiques.  "  You  never  saw  anything  like 
Sylvia,  mother,"  Phoebe  said.  "  She's  drawn  a  plan 
of  every  room  in  her  apartment,  with  the  exact 
measurements  written  on  them.  You'd  think  she 
was  working  out  a  puzzle.  She  knows  exactly  where 
she's  going  to  put  every  piece  of  furniture,  every 
picture,  and  every  bit  of  bric-a-brac."     The  quar- 


Till  He  Gets  Him  a  Wife  305 

tette — Sylvia,  Phoebe,  Ernest,  Tug — spent  all  their 
evenings  in  the  barn  now,  scraping,  oiling,  and 
polishing  Ernests  share  of  Aunt  Mary's  beautiful 
mahogany. 

"  Ern  Martin,"  Phoebe  crowed  over  her  brother 
again  and  again,  "  I  guess  you're  pretty  glad  now 
that  I  didn't  grab  off  all  the  family  loot  that  time 
you  told  me  to — just  before  I  was  married.  Maybe 
you  think  I  wasn't  tempted  to  take  you  at  your  word. 
But  I  guess  my  guardian  angel  whispered  to  me 
that  Sylvia  was  going  to  be  your  wife." 

Now,  indeed,  the  family  talk  had  enlarged  its 
scope.  When  it  did  not  turn  on  furniture  or  the 
rest  of  the  household  equipment,  it  went  to  the 
wedding  itself. 

"  Well,  mother,"  Phoebe  announced  one  morn- 
ing, "  I've  made  up  my  mind  what  we're  going  to 
wear.  I'm  going  to  have  a  canary-colored  satin 
with  a  sort  of  jacket  of  a  very  delicate  black  lace 
picked  out  with  gold  thread.  And  I've  thought  out 
the  most  wonderful  scheme  for  you — gray  chiffon 
cloth — a  dark  gray — and  yet  not  too  dark — deeper 
than  a  pearl,  anyway — trimmed  with  lace  dyed  a 
light  gray.  A  girdle  of  silver  and  royal  purple. 
Do  you  think  you'd  like  that?  " 

Mrs.  Martin  said  she  thought  she  would. 

The  next  thing  was  that  Mrs.  Martin  and  Phoebe 
were  actually  buying  the  materials  .  .  .  their 
gowns  were  being  fitted  .  .  .  they  had  come 
home  .  .  .  Sylvia's  invitations  were  out  .  .  ., 
there  were  only  a  few  days  more. 


306  Till  He  Gets  Him  a  Wife 

Mrs.  Martin's  rose-bushes  were  all  in  bud. 

And  then  Ernest's  wedding-day  came. 

In  the  middle  of  the  morning,  Phoebe,  radiantly 
handsome  in  her  canary-and-black-and-gold,  came 
to  dress  Mrs.  Martin.  "  Why,  mother/'  she  ex- 
claimed as  she  helped  her  out  of  her  morning  gown, 
"  how  thin  you  are !  I  hadn't  noticed  it.  What's 
the  matter?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  Mrs.  Martin  said  languidly. 
"  I  guess  it's  just  the  spring  feeling.  Perhaps  I've 
worked  too  hard  in  the  garden." 

"  That  wouldn't  have  caused  it."  A  real  alarm 
obscured  the  brightness  of  Phoebe's  face.  "  Though 
you  have  worked  hard.  And  just  think  of  your 
cutting  every  single  blossom  to  send  to  Sylvia.  If 
that  wasn't  just  like  you.  It's  all  this  excitement 
that's  worn  you  out.  I  guess  I  haven't  been  taking 
very  good  care  of  you,  mother.  Well,  I'll  stop  this 
right  here  or  I'll  know  the  reason  why.  To-morrow 
I'll  march  you  straight  up  to  Dr.  Bush.  He's  got 
a  tonic — Tug  took  it  last  spring.  It  tastes  like  a 
mixture  of  gasolene  and  quick  lime.  But  it  certainly 
does  build  you  up." 

It  was  a  home  wedding.  The  little  living-room 
in  the  Parker  house  was  almost  embowered  in  the 
roses  which  Mrs.  Martin  had  sent.  There  were  not 
more  than  a  double-score  of  guests,  and  these  mainly 
Martin  and  Brooks  kin.  The  Gordon  girls  pro- 
duced a  single  relative,  a  step-aunt  who  had  come 
out  of  an  Old  Ladies'  Home  and  who  was  touch- 


Till  He  Gets  Him  a  Wife  307 

ingly  grateful  for  her  holiday.  Sylvia's  other 
friends  were  a  group  of  college  girls  who  con- 
tributed a  real  note  of  gayety  to  the  occasion.  Mr. 
Parker,  long,  lean,  shyly  humorous,  gave  Sylvia 
away;  and  Marian,  in  rose-pink,  her  face  one  blur 
of  tears,  was  matron-of-honor.  Sylvia  wore  a  white 
crepe-de-chine  gown,  delicately  simple,  the  one  dress- 
maker product  of  her  wedding  outfit.  She  carried 
a  loose  bunch  of  some  of  Mrs.  Martin's  white  roses. 
A  fillet  made  from  their  tiniest  buds  encircled  her 
hair.  The  wedding  ceremony  was  performed  where 
the  noon  sunlight  streamed  into  the  room.  It  shone 
through  the  transparent  edges  of  Sylvia's  gown  and 
through  the  aureole  of  filmy  hair  that  had  pulled 
away  from  the  rosebuds.  She  seemed  like  an  ap- 
parition. Ernest  looked  like  a  marble  bust  of  him- 
self. 

The  affair  did  not  last  very  long.  By  a  quarter 
after  twelve,  the  ceremony  was  over.  By  one  they 
were  eating  the  delicious  salads,  ices,  and  cakes 
which  Sylvia  and  Marian  had  prepared  themselves. 
By  two,  Ernest  was  kissing  his  mother  good-by — 
and  kissing  her  with  his  eyes  on  Sylvia.  By  three, 
the  Martin  family,  minus  Ernest,  were  back  in  May- 
wood. 

And  then  days  passed  of  which,  afterwards,  Mrs. 
Martin  never  had  any  clear  recollection. 

One  afternoon  Mrs.  Martin  was  bending  over 
the  weakling  of  her  rose-flock.     Suddenly  an  arm 


308  Till  He  Gets  Him  a  Wife 

came   about  her   from  above,   lifted  her  upright, 
swirled  her  around. 

"  Oh,  mother!"  Ernest  said.  That  was  all  he 
said.  But  he  kept  repeating  the  word  over  and 
over — as  if  he  had  lost  a  precious  formula  and 
found  it  again.  As  for  Mrs.  Martin,  she  said  noth- 
ing. She  dropped  her  head  onto  her  son's  shoulder. 
It  stayed  there  for  a  long  time. 

"Where's  Sylvia?"  Mrs.  Martin  asked  pres- 
ently, wiping  her  eyes. 

"  She's  at  the  apartment.  We've  just  got  in  and 
she  was  pretty  tired  and  dusty.  We're  coming  up 
together  this  evening.  But  I  couldn't  wait  until  then 
to  see  you.  Don't  let's  go  in  now,  mother.  Stay 
out  here  and  talk." 

Ernest  came  again  that  evening  as  he  had  prom- 
ised. Sylvia  looked  rested  and  happy.  She  was 
full  of  talk  about  their  honeymoon,  the  wedding- 
presents  that  had  arrived  during  their  absence,  the 
wonder  of  their  perfect  dining-room.  After  a  while, 
Ernest  proposed  that  his  mother  take  a  walk  with 
him.  They  left  Mr.  Martin  and  Sylvia  talking. 
Presently  Phoebe  and  Tug  came.  Later,  the  whole 
family  walked  back  with  "  the  newly-weds,"  as 
Phoebe  now  called  them. 

Ernest  and  Sylvia  came  to  dinner  at  the  Martin 
house  the  next  night.  Immediately  after  they  arose 
from  the  table,  Ernest  took  his  mother  for  a  long 
stroll  in  the  garden.  The  next  night,  Ernest  and 
Sylvia  dined  with  Phoebe  and  Tug;  but  on  their  way 


Till  He  Gets  Him  a  Wife  309 

home  Ernest  stopped  for  a  good-night  talk  with 
Mrs.  Martin.  The  next  night  they  went  to  the 
Parkers.  But  at  ten  o'clock  they  were  back  in  the 
Martin  house,  and  Ernest  was  saying:  "  Come  out 
in  the  garden  with  me,  mother.  It's  one  pippin  of  a 
night.  I've  got  something  to  talk  over  with  you." 
It  was  the  same  the  next  night  and  the  next  and 
many  nights  after  that. 

"  Well,  Mother  Martin,  that  tonic  has  certainly 
done  wonders  for  you !  "  Phoebe  exclaimed  one  day. 
"  Your  skin  is  as  pink  and  your  eyes  as  bright.  You 
look  ten  years  younger.  Have  you  noticed,  though, 
how  quiet  Sylvia  seems  nowadays?  Most  brides 
are  so  proud  of  their  new  possessions  that  they're 
talking  about  them  all  the  time.  I  realize  now  I 
ought  to  have  been  shut  up  somewhere,  I  must  have 
bored  people  so.  It's  the  queerest  thing  about  Syl- 
via !  I've  been  down  there  three  afternoons  in  suc- 
cession now,  and  she  doesn't  seem  to  show  half  the 
enthusiasm  about  her  home  that  she  had  before  she 
was  married.  If  I  make  a  suggestion,  about  some- 
thing I  mean  on  which  she's  asked  my  advice,  she 
says,  '  Perhaps  that  would  be  a  good  idea !  '  and 
changes  the  subject.  And  she's  begun  a  lot  of 
things  that  she  shows  no  interest  in  finishing.  Have 
you  noticed  it,  mother?" 

"  Why,  no,"  Mrs.  Martin  said  slowly.  "  But  now 
you  speak  of  it,  she  has  seemed  rather  quiet  lately." 

That  afternoon,  while  Mrs.  Martin  was  working 
in  her  garden,  a  shadow  fell  across  her  path.     She 


310  Till  He  Gets  Him  a  Wife 

looked  up.  "  Mother,"  Sylvia  said  without  pre- 
liminary greeting.  "  I  want  to  have  a  talk  with  you 
— alone.     Before  Ernest  gets  home." 

"Why,  what  is  it,  Sylvia?"  Mrs.  Martin  asked 
in  alarm.  For  Sylvia's  face  might  have  been  cast 
in  lead. 

11  IVe  felt  for  a  long  time  that  I  must  tell 
somebody,"  Sylvia  went  on  in  a  dull  voice,  "  but  at 
first  I  didn't  know  who  to  go  to.  Of  course  my 
first  thought  was  Marian.  But  it  seemed  to  me  that, 
as  long  as  it  is  something  which  concerned  Ernest, 
I  had  no  business  to  tell  her.  I  worked  it  out  that 
the  only  thing  was  to  come  to  you." 

"  My  dear — my  dear— what  is  it?  "  Mrs.  Mar- 
tin's alarm  deepened  to  terror. 

"  It's — it's — it's — I  guess  I've  failed  as  a  wife.  I 
see  that.  I  haven't  made  Ernest  happy  and  I  don't 
believe  I  ever  can.  I  thought  I  could,  because  I  was 
so  crazy  to  have  a  home  of  my  own.  I  was  very 
sure  that  I  could  make  it  attractive.  But  I  can't. 
I've  failed." 

" Failed!    What  do  you  mean,  Sylvia?  " 

"  He  doesn't  like  our  home.  He  doesn't  want 
to  stay  in  it.  He  isn't  happy  there.  Every  night,  the 
moment  we've  eaten  our  dinner,  he  says,  '  Now  let's 
go  up  and  see  mother.'  He's  homesick.  I  know 
that.  The  moment  he  gets  here,  he  takes  you  off 
into  the  garden  alone  for  a  talk.  I'm  afraid  if 
we  didn't  live  in  the  same  town,  where  we  could 
see  you  every  day,  he  couldn't  stand  it.  He's  very 
unhappy.    I  guess  he's  sorry  he  got  married." 


Till  He  Gets  Him  a  Wife  311 

Mrs.  Martin  seized  Sylvia's  arm.  "  Sylvia/'  she 
said — and  she  shook  the  girl  a  little — "  do  you  know 
what  Ernest  talks  about  all  the  time  when  he's  alone 
with  me?  " 

Sylvia  shook  her  head. 

"  You/'  Mrs.  Martin  said.  "  You— all  the  time 
you — nothing  but  you.  How  good  you  are,  how 
beautiful,  and  how  clever.  How  he  never  could 
have  believed  that  an  inexperienced  girl  could  start 
right  in  and  run  a  house  so  well.  How  delicious 
the  breakfasts  are!  How  dainty  the  table  is  set! 
What  wonderful  dinners  you  get  up,  and  what  va- 
riety, and  how  economical !  And  how  there  are  al- 
ways flowers  about  even  if  they're  only  field  flowers. 
And  how  he's  never  seen  you  untidy  yet.  In  the 
morning  you  might  be  going  to  a  party,  you  look 
so  pretty  and  sweet — especially  in  those  little  caps 
and  morning-jackets  you  sometimes  wear  to  break- 
fast. And  how  he's  being  neater  than  he  ever  was 
in  his  life,  so's  to  keep  the  house  looking  pretty 
when  callers  come.  And  how  you're  never  cross? 
And  if  he  can  ever  make  up  his  mind  to  give  up 
one  moment  of  you,  he's  going  to  invite  all  the 
Princeton  men  about  Boston  by  squads  to  meet  you. 
And  how  proud  he  was  when  you  came  into  the 
office  the  other  day.  He  said  he  guessed  all  the 
men  there  envied  him  a  wife  like  you.  And 
how " 

As  Mrs.  Martin  talked,  she  saw  Sylvia's  face 
fill  with  a  rose-pink  tide,  her  eyes  with  an  azure 
flood,  as  that  light  which  had  died  down  on  the  altar 


312  Till  He  Gets  Him  a  Wife 

of  her  happiness  burned  up  and  burst  into  radiant 
flame. 

" Edward"  Mrs.  Martin  said  that  night  as  they 
went  to  bed,  u  somehow  it  seems  to  me  I  never  was 
so  happy  in  my  life  as  I  am  now.  I  think  we've  got 
a  good  deal  to  be  thankful  for,  Phoebe  married  to 
such  a  nice  man  and  with  the  dearest  baby  in  the 
world,  and  now  Ernest  getting  such  a  treasure  as 
Sylvia.  I  had  a  long  talk  with  Sylvia  to-day.  I  told 
her  what  a  clever  housekeeper  she  was  and  how 
proud  we  all  were  of  her.  When  I  think  of  the 
kind  of  girl  Ernest  might  have  picked  out — oh,  Ed- 
ward, I  guess  V d  better  spend  the  rest  of  my  life 
trying  to  be  grateful  enough!  " 


CHAPTER  XII 
THE  FOUND  CHILDREN 

"T3UT,  Mrs.  Martin,  there's  no  use  talking, 
J3  when  your  children  marry,  you  lose  them. 
Harold  has  never  been  the  same  to  me  since  he  mar- 
ried Clara  Haywood.  He's  gone  right  over  to  the 
Haywoods.  He  spends  every  Wednesday  and  Sun- 
day night  of  his  life  with  her  folks.  He  only  comes 
to  see  me  when  he  thinks  of  it.  Of  course  Ray 
Carleton  is  a  nice  fellow.  But  he's  so  young.  And 
Grade's  so  young.  Somehow  I  can't  get  used  to  the 
idea.  It  seems  wicked.  What  would  you  do,  Mrs. 
Martin?" 

Mrs.  Seaver's  little  dark  sallow  face,  a  mass  of 
wrinkles  normally,  seemed,  under  the  stress  of  her 
emotion,  to  tie  itself  into  knots.  Her  claw-like  little 
hands  twisted,  folding  and  unfolding.  The  tears 
stood  frankly  in  eyes  too  big  and  bright  for  her  face, 
eyes  that  held  the  furtive,  alert  gleam  of  some  very 
tiny,  easily-frightened  animal. 

Mrs.  Seaver's  face  offered  the  one  discordant  note 
in  the  serene  calm  of  the  big  living-rooms.  In  the 
years  which  had  elapsed  since  Phoebe  first  took  its 
decoration  in  hand,  the  Martin  house  had  acquired 
some  of  the  beauty  of  its  early  days.  The  wall- 
papers  had   faded   a   little,    the   mission   furniture 

313 


314  The  Found  Children 

showed  the  marks  of  use.  Mrs.  Martin's  climbing 
plants  wreathed  the  noble  mantels  in  their  vivid 
green.  Vases  and  bowls  held  brilliant  bunches  of 
dahlias  and  asters.  Many  framed  pictures  of  chil- 
dren littered  the  tables  and  bookcases.  To-day 
the  house  was  in  the  perfection  of  order.  Every- 
thing that  could  shine,  shone.  A  Sunday  quiet  lay 
over  the  rooms,  and  yet  the  whole  house  held  an 
air  of  tiptoe  excitement — as  if  it  awaited  something. 

Mrs.  Martin  evidently  awaited  something.  Her 
eyes  kept  straying  out  the  window.  If  the  atmos- 
pheric values  ran  down  to  discord  in  Mrs.  Seaver's 
face,  they  ran  up  to  harmony  in  Mrs.  Martin's. 
Except  for  that  transient  flash  of  expectancy,  her 
look  was  perfectly  placid.  She  still  kept  her  tall, 
spare  figure;  but  the  years  had  turned  her  hair 
white;  they  had  lined  her  face  deeply. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  as  I  know  what  I'd  do," 
Mrs.  Martin  answered.  "  At  least,  I  can't  say  right 
off.  Of  course  Gracie  is  young — only  eighteen,  isn't 
she?" 

Mrs.  Seaver  nodded. 

"Just  think  of  it!"  Mrs.  Martin  commented. 
M  It  seems  only  yesterday  that  she  was  running  over 
here  for  Phoebe  to  read  '  Little  Women  '  to  her." 

"  Mrs.  Martin,  to  this  day  Gracie  gets  '  Little 
Women  '  out  every  once  in  a  while  and  reads  it  all 
over  again.  That's  as  undeveloped  as  she  is."  Mrs. 
Seaver  wiped  her  eyes  indignantly. 

"  But  when  it  comes  to  her  marrying  so  young," 
Mrs.  Martin  went  on  slowly.     "  I  guess  I  agree 


The  Found  Children  315 

with  you.  I  think  most  mothers  would.  It's  queer 
the  difference  in  the  way  you  feel  about  your  chil- 
dren marrying.  When  Phoebe  came  to  get  engaged 
— she  was  over  twenty,  you  know — I  didn't  seem  to 
mind  it  at  all.  But  Edward  took  it  awfully  hard.  It 
seemed  as  if  he  never  would  get  reconciled.  When 
Ernie's  engagement  came  out,  Edward  was  simply 
delighted.  But  they'd  been  married  a  month  before 
I  stopped  crying  nights.  I've  worked  it  out  that 
men  hate  to  lose  their  daughters  and  women  their 
sons.  But  they've  all  got  to  face  it,  for  marry  they 
will.    It's  nature." 

"  Oh,  it  isn't  marriage  I  object  to.  Lord  knows 
I  don't  want  Gracie  to  be  an  old  maid.  But  when 
she's  so  young  and  all  I've  got — well,  it  just  seems 
cruel  to  have  her  go  so  soon.  Why,  we've  done 
everything  together — you  might  say.  We  did  all 
our  shopping  together.  Once  a  week,  ever  since 
she's  been  old  enough,  we've  gone  to  a  matinee  to- 
gether. I've  chaperoned  her  to  every  dance.  And 
now  that'll  be  all  over.  She'll  have  her  own  family 
and  her  own  interests.  Oh,  it  will  never  be  the 
same  again.    I'll  lose  her." 

"  It  will  never  be  the  same  again,"  Mrs.  Martin 
agreed.  "  But  I  don't  think  you'll  lose  her.  That 
is,  unless " 

"  Why,  now,  Mrs.  Martin,"  Mrs.  Seaver's  pes- 
simism flared  into  a  hysterical  recklessness,  "  take 
you  and  Phoebe.  Phoebe  lives  in  the  same  town 
with  you,  and  of  course,  in  a  way,  you  see  a  lot  of 
her.     And  yet  she's  giving  luncheons  and  dinner- 


316  The  Found  Children 

parties  and  whists  all  the  time,  but  you  don't  go 
to  a  half  of  them,  nor  a  quarter." 

Mrs.  Martin  bristled  a  little.  "  Yes,  that's  true," 
she  acknowledged.  "  But  that  isn't  because  I'm 
not  invited  or  because  Phoebe  don't  want  me.  It's 
only  because " 

"  I  know,"  Mrs.  Seaver  said,  her  recklessness 
giving  way  to  melancholy.  "  There  are  plenty  of 
reasons  why,  but  the  long  and  short  of  it  is  you 
don't  go.  And  that's  what  I'm  afraid  will  happen 
with  Gracie  and  me.  I'll  go  to  everything  she  gives 
for  a  while.  Then  I'll  begin  to  feel  old  and  passe 
and  in  the  way  and  as  if  my  clothes  weren't  right — 
and  I'll  make  excuses  to  stay  at  home.  And  then 
I'll  get  tired  of  keeping  house  all  alone  and  she 
won't  want  me,  so  I'll  take  to  boarding.  And  the 
first  thing  I  know  I'll  be  one  of  those  old  ladies  who 
sit  round  boarding-house  parlors  and  gossip  and 
knit — except  once  in  a  while  when  I  go  to  Grade's 
house  for  a  luncheon  of  left-overs.  And  when 
finally  I  get  so  lonely  that  I  can't  stand  that  any 
longer,  I'll  enter  some  Old  Ladies'  Home.  I  don't 
know  but  what  I'd  better  save  myself  a  lot  of  trouble 
by  going  into  one  the  day  after  Gracie  gets  mar- 
ried." 

uOh,  Mrs.  Seaver!  "  Mrs.  Martin  exclaimed  in 
a  shocked  tone.  "  But  then,"  she  added  as  if  re- 
assuring herself,  M  you  can't.  You're  not  old 
enough.  Oh,"  she  exclaimed  joyfully,  "  there's 
Phoebe  now  and  Bertha-Elizabeth." 

Mrs.  Seaver  rose  hastily.    "  I  guess  I  don't  want 


The  Found  Children  317 

Phoebe  to  catch  me  crying.  I'll  run  home  by  the 
back  way  if  you  don't  mind." 

"  Come  over  this  afternoon,  won't  you,  Mrs. 
Seaver?"  Mrs.  Martin  entreated.  "  There's  al- 
ways a  lot  of  young  folks  here  for  supper,  Sunday 
night.     I  know  you'll  enjoy  it." 

"  Well,"  Mrs.  Seaver  said,  "  perhaps.  I  don't 
feel  much  like  it,  though."  She  disappeared  in  the 
direction  of  the  kitchen. 

Mrs.  Martin  moved  over  to  the  window  and 
watched  her  daughter's  approach. 

Phoebe  had  not  grown  matronly  in  the  last  seven 
years,  although  the  diaphanous  look  of  girlhood  had 
entirely  left  her.  Every  physical  element  in  her 
maiden  comeliness  had  been  accented  and  empha- 
sized. She  was  a  creature  now  of  definite  outlines, 
high  lights,  glossy  surfaces.  The  willowy,  break- 
able quality  in  her  figure  had  given  way  to  an  air 
of  vigor  and  virility.  The  velvety  amber-olive  of 
her  skin  had  deepened  to  an  out-of-doors  hardness. 
A  permanent  color  glowed  in  her  cheeks  and  lips. 
Her  yellow-brown  hair  looked  like  carved  metal. 
Her  eyes,  however,  showed  a  change.  Deep  under 
their  sparkle  lay  a  little  sadness,  as  if  there  were 
one  question  she  put  perpetually  to  fate.  But  for 
that,  she  had  the  air  of  a  perfectly  happy  woman. 

A  little  girl  in  a  long  gray  coat  and  a  high 
peaked  hat  walked  at  her  side.  She  was  a  slim,  frail 
creature,  of  a  transparent,  silver-blonde  type,  with 
dove's  eyes  of  a  deep  gray,  with  cheeks  and  lips 
tinted  a  delicate  shell-pink.     After  a  whispered  col- 


318  The  Found  Children 

loquy  at  the  gate,  she  dropped  her  mother's  hand 
and  scampered  over  to  the  barn.  Phoebe  continued 
up  the  path. 

11  Greetings,  mother!  "  she  called  from  the  door. 
And  she  talked  all  the  way  through  the  hall.  u  I 
have  never  seen  such  a  day.  The  air  is  like  honey 
with  a  drop  of  wine  in  it.  I've  been  drinking  it 
down.     Oh,  how  I  love  this  season !  " 

She  entered  the  room  with  all  her  accustomed 
effect  of  dispersing  by  the  mere  force  of  her  vitality 
every  shadow  in  it. 

"  Well,  you  come  honestly  by  it,"  said  her  mother. 
11  I  love  the  fall,  too.  Some  folks  feel  sad  when 
the  leaves  begin  to  drop.  But  there's  something 
about  it — I  never  could  tell  exactly  what — that 
makes  me  as  gay." 

"  Bertha-Elizabeth  and  I  walked  in  the  gutter  all 
the  way  up.  It's  such  fun  to  hear  the  dead  leaves 
rustle  and  snap  and  crackle.     It  exhilarates  me." 

"  How's  it  happen  Bertha-Elizabeth  isn't  at  Sun- 
day-school?" Mrs.  Martin  asked. 

"  She  got  sort  of  droopy  in  church.  So  I  decided 
I  wouldn't  let  her  stay.  Somehow  she  doesn't  seem 
to  stand  half  as  much  as  the  other  two.  Some- 
times  "  Phoebe  paused.  That  look  of  perpet- 
ual question  in  her  eyes  grew  almost  poignant  as  an 
inner  anxiety  darkened  the  happy  buoyancy  of  her 
mood,  "  sometimes  I  worry  about  Bertha-Elizabeth. 
She  looks  so — so — sort  of — ethereal  and  far-away. 
But  she  is  a  healthy  child,  don't  you  think  so, 
mother?" 


The  Found  Children  319 

"  Why,  of  course  she  is."  Mrs.  Martin's  em- 
phasis was  suspiciously  strong.    "  She's  never  sick." 

"  I  know  that — but  I  have  a  sort  of  feeling  that 
she's  well  only  because  I  keep  her  so.  She's  different 
from  the  other  two.  Well,  I  know  it  would  kill  me 
if  anything  happened  to  her.  Oh,  mother,"  Phoebe 
changed  the  subject  abruptly,  "  I've  had  such  a  time 
for  two  days  with  Phoebe-Girl.  She  gets  naughtier 
and  naughtier  every  day  of  her  life.  I  can't  do  a 
thing  with  her."  Phoebe's  eyes  blazed  with  that 
proud  indignation  with  which  ever  the  mothers  of 
mischievous  children  narrate  their  exploits.  "  Now 
let  me  tell  you  what  she  did  this  morning.  Ellen's 
mother  is  ill.  *She  had  to  leave  early  yesterday 
morning  and  I've  had  charge  of  Phoebe-Girl  ever 
since.  I'd  rather  take  care  of  a  box  of  monkeys. 
Yesterday  I  couldn't  get  my  bath  in,  I  was  so  busy 
looking  after  her.  This  morning  I  drew  the  tub 
full  of  water.  She  was  playing  about  and  I  left  her 
alone  in  the  bathroom  for  just  exactly  one  minute. 
When  I  came  back,  everything  in  the  room  was  in 
the,  tub — wash-cloths,  clean  towels,  soap,  tooth- 
brushes, tooth-pastes,  bottles,  glasses,  sponges.  I 
was  half  an  hour  cleaning  up." 

"  Did  you  punish  her?  " 

"  It  does  no  good  to  punish  her,  mother,  she's 
always  so  interested  in  her  punishments.  She  seems 
to  look  upon  it  as  some  new  game  we're  playing. 
Then  I  try  reasoning  with  her.  I've  talked  until  I 
was  blue  in  the  face.  She  listens  as  if  I  were  telling 
her  a  fairy-tale,  her  eyes  sparkling,  all  her  dimples 


320  The  Found  Children 

showing.  Then  the  instant  I  get  through,  she  goes 
right  straight  from  my  side  and  does  it  again." 

"  Why  doesn't  Tug  attend  to  her?  " 

"  Tug!  She  winds  Tug  right  round  her  finger. 
Mother,  I  tell  you  I'm  put  to  it  sometimes.  I  didn't 
have  any  such  trouble  with  Bertha-Elizabeth  or  To- 
land.  I  suppose  they  were  naturally  good  children, 
but  I  thought  they  were  good  because  I  made  them 
so." 

"  Well — Phoebe,"  Mrs.  Martin  exclaimed  scath- 
ingly, u  I  could  have  told  you  you  were  no  discipli- 
narian." 

"  I  guess  you're  right,  mother.  But  I  simply 
can't  scold  them — the  things  they  do  are  so  dar- 
ling. I  try  to  sometimes,  but  I  always  burst  out 
laughing  right  in  the  midst  of  it.  That  system 
worked  all  right  with  the  first  two.  But  what  I'm 
going  to  do  with  Phoebe-Girl,  I  don't  know.  We 
have  to  watch  her  every  blessed  minute.  If  there's 
one  instant  of  quiet  in  the  house  we  all  get  up  and 
hunt  her." 

"  That's  exactly  the  kind  of  child  you  were, 
Phoebe."  Mrs.  Martin's  voice  swelled  with  a  note 
of  triumph  as  if  fate  had  at  last  avenged  certain 
obscure  wrongs. 

11  It's  a  judgment  on  me,  then.  I  told  her  yes- 
terday that  she  was  so  bad  I  was  going  to  give  her 
away." 

"  Well! "  Mrs.  Martin  exclaimed  indignantly, 
"  you  know  who  you  can  give  her  to  without  going 
a  step  further." 


The  Found  Children  321 

"  Oh,  yes,  she  stipulated  that  she  was  to  be  given 
to  you.  In  fact,  the  idea  seemed  to  delight  her. 
Two  hours  later  I  found  all  her  clothes — every  rag 
she  owns — in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  ready  to  pack. 
I  spent  another  half  hour  putting  them  away.  Oh, 
it's  all  right  for  you  to  take  that  superior  air,  Mrs. 
Martin,  but  I  don't  seem  to  see  you  exercising  any 
of  your  vaunted  severity  towards  your  grandchil- 
dren. I  notice  if  you're  around,  when  they  do  any- 
thing naughty,  you  always  find  some  reason  why 
they  shouldn't  be  punished." 

Phoebe  paused  for  a  moment.  Then,  "  What  are 
father  and  Bertha-Elizabeth  doing?"  she  asked  in 
a  baffled  tone.  "  Oh,  I  know,"  she  added  after  an- 
other perplexed  instant,  "  they're  hunting  for  horse- 
chestnuts.  Do  you  know,  mother,  that's  my  earliest 
memory  about  this  place — hunting  horse-chestnuts. 
I  couldn't  have  been  more  than  three.  I  remember 
how  wonderful  I  thought  they  were — so  glossy  and 
beautiful.  I  used  to  hunt  them  until  I  had 
bucketsful.  And  then  I  never  could  think  of 
anything  to  do  with  them."  Phoebe  sighed.  "  A 
good  deal  of  life's  like  that,  isn't  it?  I  have  always 
loved  our  horse-chestnut  trees.  They're  the  biggest 
ones  in  Maywood.  When  they  budded  in  the  spring, 
they  used  to  look  like  candelabras  to  me.  And 
when  the  leaves  first  came  out,  they  were  like  pointer 
dogs'  paws.  And  then  the  wonderful  cone-shaped 
blossoms  and  then  the  opening  burs.  You  never 
let  me  go  off  the  place  until  I  went  to  school  and 
I  used  to  think  there  was  an  enchanted  country  on 


322  The  Found  Children 

the  other  side  of  the  horse-chestnut  hedge.  I  loved 
the  maples  too.  Why,  there  was  one  time  when 
every  book  I  owned  was  full  of  pressed  maple- 
leaves.  But  the  color  used  always  to  fade  out  of 
them."  Phoebe  sighed  again.  "  That's  a  little  like 
life,  too,  isn't  it?  Oh,  I  am  so  glad  that  my  chil- 
dren are  going  to  have  the  same  beautiful  memories 
that  I  have." 

Phoebe  seemed  to  run  down.  But  her  gaze  lin- 
gered on  her  little  daughter,  whose  eyes,  shining 
with  wonder,  had  fixed  themselves  on  her  grand- 
father's face.  Hand  in  hand,  those  two  still  walked 
among  the  falling  yellow  leaves. 

"  How  crazy  he  is  about  that  child!  "  Phoebe  re- 
marked. 

"  Not  more  crazy  than  he  is  about  the  others," 
Mrs.  Martin  said  quickly. 

■■■  Oh,  yes,  he  is,"  Phoebe  insisted.  "  I  know  who 
all  the  favorites  among  my  children  are.  You  can't 
fool  a  mother.  Bertha-Elizabeth  is  his  and  Sylvia's, 
Toland  is  yours  and  mine,  Phoebe-Girl  is  Tug's  and 
Ern's.  But  I  never  saw  anything  like  father.  I 
think  he  loves  Bertha-Elizabeth  more  than  he  loved 
me." 

There  was  a  faint  note  of  some  strange  emotion 
in  Phoebe's  blithe  tone.  Mrs.  Martin  shot  a  quick 
look  at  her.     Then-  she  smiled  a  little. 

11  He  loves  you  in  her  as  he  loved  me  in  you," 
she  explained. 

"  I  don't  remember  that  he  ever  played  with  me 
for  hours  at  a  time."     Again  there  was  that  little 


The  Found  Children  323 

questioning,  wistful  note   in   Phoebe's  voice.     She 
stared  in  a  half-grieved  way  out  the  window. 

Mrs.  Martin  smiled  again.  "  Sometimes,"  she 
began  after  a  pause,  "  I  think  men  are  the  most 
pathetic  creatures  on  earth.  All  their  lives  they're 
looking  for  something  they  never  find.  Women  are 
different.  They  know  right  in  the  beginning  they're 
never  going  to  get  it.  You  take  your  father.  How 
he  loved  me !  We  were  all  in  all  to  each  other  ' 
until  you  children  came.  Then  I  couldn't  do  a  thing 
that  he  wanted  me  to,  it  seemed  as  if.  I  didn't  love 
him  any  the  less,  but  you  children  needed  me  more — 
you  were  so  helpless.  So  many  times  he  wanted 
me  to  go  places  with  him  evenings  and  I  couldn't 
because  there  was  no  one  to  stay  with  you  and  Ernie. 
Then  he  sort  of  adjusted  himself  to  that,  and  the 
first  thing  I  knew,  you  were  all  in  all  to  him.  He 
just  worshiped  the  ground  you  walked  on.  Then 
you  got  married  to  Tug  and  stepped  out  of  this 
house  as  easy  as  if  you  hadn't  known  your  father 
more  than  a  month.  Well,  he  accommodated  him- 
self to  that.  And  now  he's  putting  all  his  extra 
affection  into  little  Bertha-Elizabeth.  And  I  sup- 
pose some  time  she'll  marry  and  leave  him." 

"  Of  course  she  will,"  Phoebe  said.  "  I  don't 
want  any  old  maids  in  this  family.  Neither  would 
father.  Let  me  tell  you,  though,  I'm  going  to  ad- 
minister cyanide  of  potassium  to  the  girl  who  mar- 
ries my  son.  It's  queer — but  I  simply  cannot  bear 
to  think  of  Toland's  falling  in  love.  Sometimes  I 
feel  as  if  I  were  an  unnatural  parent.     It  didn't 


324  The  Found  Children 

seem  to  bother  you  a  bit,  mother,  when  Ern  Martin 
married  Sylvia. " 

Phoebe's  eyes  were  still  out  the  window.  Mrs. 
Martin  smiled  again.  But  it  was  a  different  smile 
this  time.  Perhaps  it  was  not  a  smile  at  all,  more 
the  ghost  of  a  dead  pain. 

11  There  they  come  now !  "  Phoebe  exclaimed. 
Mrs.  Martin  jumped  up  from  her  rocker  and  moved 
quickly  over  to  the  window.  Two  children  turned 
in  at  the  gate.  A  curly-headed,  snub-nosed,  freckled 
boy  in  a  blue  coat  with  brass  buttons,  a  little  gipsy- 
colored  girl  in  a  scarlet,  hooded  cape  and  a  scarlet 
cap.  They  made  straight  for  their  grandfather, 
who  received  the  onslaught  with  both  feet  braced. 

"  Mother  Warburton  says,"  Phoebe  went  on, 
11  that  she  never  in  her  life  saw  two  people  so  much 
alike  as  Tug  and  little  Toland.  She  says  it's  almost 
uncanny.  She's  got  their  two  baby  pictures  framed 
together." 

Mrs.  Martin  kept  silent  by  a  supreme  effort. 
This  obsession  of  Mrs.  Warburton's  was  a  great 
irritation  to  her.  It  turned  the  knife  in  the  wound 
that  Phoebe  shared  it.  It  seemed  to  Mrs.  Martin 
that  little  Toland's  resemblance  to  his  Uncle  Ernest 
and  to  his  grandfather  Martin  was  so  apparent  as  to 
be  little  short  of  comic. 

"  But  I  declare,  I  can't  see  who  Phoebe-Girl  takes 
after,"  Phoebe  went  on,  "  Mrs.  Warburton  says 
that  she's  the  image  of  her  mother." 

Again  Mrs.  Martin  held  a  noble  peace.  Phoebe- 
Girl's  resemblance  to  Aunt  Mary  could  be  proved 


The  Found  Children  325 

by  dozens  of  tintypes  and  daguerreotypes,  by  even 
a  faded  photograph  or  two. 

Mr.  Martin  had  in  the  meantime  lifted  the  in- 
sistent Phoebe-Girl  onto  his  shoulder.  He  bore  her 
pig-a-back,  at  the  head  of  the  procession  which 
made  toward  the  house. 

"  Lord  love  her!  "  Phoebe's  voice  almost  broke 
under  its  burden  of  tenderness,  "  she  can  be  as 
naughty  as  she  wants — she's  the  handsomest  thing 
I  ever  laid  my  eyes  on."  The  procession  wound 
into  the  house  through  the  back  door.  Involun- 
tarily the  two  women  listened  to  the  dialogue  coming 
through  the  hall. 

"  But  gwampa — evwywhere?"  It  was  Phoebe- 
Girl's  wondering  treble. 

"  Yes,  everywhere."  It  was  Mr.  Martin's  posi- 
tive bass. 

"  In  the  ice-chest,  gwampa?  " 

"  Well — yes — I  suppose  so." 

The  front  of  the  procession  appeared  in  the  door- 
way. "  Mudder,"  Phoebe-Girl  announced  radi- 
antly, "  God's  in  the  ice-chest." 

"  Thank  goodness,  father,"  Phoebe  remarked, 
"  you  can  answer  her  questions  one  day  in  the  week. 
I  haven't  any  words  or  ideas  left  by  Sunday." 

Mr.  Martin  seated  himself  on  the  couch,  Phoebe- 
Girl  still  hanging  from  his  shoulders.  The  other 
two  children  threw  themselves  like  a  pair  of  little 
wolves  on  their  grandmother. 

"  I've  already  had  a  rather  exhausting  session 
with    Bertha-Elizabeth,"    Mr.    Martin    admitted. 


326  The  Found  Children 

"  I've  explained  the  sidereal  system,  molecular 
energy,  and  the  Darwinian  theory." 

11  Oh,  they've  just  begun  to  get  under  way," 
Phoebe  said  comfortingly.  "  Wait  until  they  ask 
you  what's  at  the  other  end  of  space  and  what  hap- 
pens when  time  stops.  And  what  there  was  before 
anything  began  and  what  there'll  be  when  it  all  ends. 
And  how  far  the  stars  reach  into  space."  She 
stared  at  the  pair  of  faces,  her  father's  square, 
twinkling,  freshly  florid,  framed  in  crisp  white  hair, 
her  daughter's  oval,  dimpled,  rose-and-snow,  emerg- 
ing from  flying  masses  of  jet-black  curls.  "  Not 
wishing  to  pry,  Mr.  Martin,  but  just  as  a  matter  of 
curiosity,  how  many  mash-notes  do  you  receive  a 
day?" 

"  I  really  don't  know,  Mrs.  Warburton,"  her  fa- 
ther replied  in  kind.  "  I  have  engaged  one  stenog- 
rapher who  does  nothing  but  answer  those  letters. 
My  orders  to  her  are  never  to  bother  me  with  them. 
Oh,  here  comes  the  rest  of  the  family." 

From  the  path,  Sylvia  and  Ernest  waved  to  the 
group  in  the  window.  Two  boys,  palpably  twins, 
slim,  determined-looking,  black-eyed,  black-haired 
little  chaps,  trotted  on  ahead. 

"  Oh,  how  I  wish  I  had  twin  boys  like  Edward 
and  Ernest!  "  Phoebe  said.  "  Aren't  they  darlings! 
And  I'd  like  twin  girls,  too.  And  a  red-headed 
baby.    And  that's  all." 

The  room  exploded  in  another  moment  into  a 
flurry  of  greetings.  Ernest  kissed  his  mother,  sank, 
with  a  sigh  of  relief,  into  the  Morris  chair.    Phoebe- 


The  Found  Children  327 

Girl  immediately  climbed  into  his  lap.  Bertha-Eliza- 
beth took  the  place  beside  her  deserted  grandfather. 
The  three  little  boys  faded  silently  in  the  direction 
of  the  barn. 

"  Uncle  Ernest,  God's  in  the  coal-bin  and  the  ice- 
chest,"  Phoebe-Girl  announced  triumphantly. 

Ernest  laughed.  "  Our  family  wrestled  with  the 
problem  of  omnipresence  two  years  ago,"  he  com- 
mented, "  but  we  still  bear  the  scars." 

Ernest  had  changed  more  than  Phoebe.  Much  of 
his  boy's  beaute  de  diable  had  gone  with  his  boy's 
coloring.  His  face  had  grown  serious  in  expression: 
already  it  had  begun  to  line  a  little ;  there  were  hol- 
lows under  the  eyes.  Ernest  would  be  very  hand- 
some in  the  portly  forties,  but  in  the  tense  thirties 
he  looked  a  little  drawn.  His  smile,  however,  still 
brought  an  extraordinary  illumination. 

In  spite  of  her  two  sturdy  sons — perhaps  because 
of  them — Sylvia  still  retained  her  fragility  of  figure. 
Her  eyes  still  held  their  limpid  innocent  angel's 
look.  Her  face  was  soft  and  tender.  It  had  begun, 
very  delicately,  to  fade. 

Mrs.  Martin  seated  herself  beside  her  son. 
"  How  have  the  children  been,  Ernie?  " 

"  Very  well — and  very  bad,"  Ernest  answered. 
"  Mother,  if  I  believed  in  astrology,  I  wouldn't  dare 
to  have  their  horoscopes  cast.  I  haven't  the  nerve 
to  face  the  truth.  Sylvia  seems  to  think  they'll  es- 
cape the  electric-chair,  though." 

"  But  by  a  very  narrow  margin,  I'm  perfectly 
willing  to  admit,"  Sylvia  said.    "  Yesterday  morning 


328  The  Found  Children 

they  got  at  the  vacuum-cleaner.  They  cleaned  my 
dresser  of  hairpins,  side-combs,  jewelry,  every 
little  thing  on  it.  Oh,  it  was  such  a  dirty,  dusty  job 
getting  them  back.  In  the  afternoon  there  was  some 
work  I  had  to  do.  So  I  tied  each  of  the  twins  by 
a  long  clothes-line  to  a  tree  back  of  the  house.  I 
put  their  toys  where  they  could  get  them  and  left 
them  to  their  fates.  It's  the  first  quiet  morning  I've 
had  since  they  were  born.  But  I  suppose,"  she 
added  apologetically,  "  all  healthy  boys  are  mis- 
chievous, aren't  they,  mother?  " 

"  Yes — and  girls,"  Mrs.  Martin  said.  u  Ernie 
wasn't  a  bit  worse  than  Phoebe — not  half  so  bad,  I 
sometimes  thought." 

Over  her  mother's  head,  Phoebe  winked  at  her 
brother.  "  Mother,"  she  said  in  a  serious  voice, 
"  there's  only  one  criticism  I  have  to  bring  against 
you  in  your  maternal  capacity  and  that  is  the  harsh 
way  you've  always  treated  Ern." 

M  Yes,  mother,"  Ernest  agreed  solemnly,  "  I  have 
felt  that  if  you  had  relieved  the  severity  of  your 
attitude  with  an  occasional  kindness,  I  should  have 
turned  out  a  different  man." 

Mrs.  Martin  tried  not  to  smile.  "  Still,  I  don't 
think  I  indulged  you,  Ernie." 

11  Not  at  all,"  Mr.  Martin  came  to  her  rescue. 
"Far  from  it!  I  have  always  said  you  were  a 
Spartan  mother,  Bertha." 

"  Lila  and  Will  Ellis  are  coming  this  afternoon," 
Phoebe  said,  "  and  the  Gould  twins.  I  suppose 
they  can  marry  a  hundred  times  and  we'll  still  call 


The  Found  Children  329 

them  the  Gould  twins.  And  Fonnie  and  Molly. 
Oh,  Ern,  who  do  you  suppose  is  coming  to  visit  me 
next  month?  Augusta  Pugh — Augusta  Adams  she 
is  now.  Her  husband's  writing  a  novel  and  they're 
going  to  spend  the  winter  in  Italy.  I'm  delighted 
to  have  her." 

"  I  suppose  I  never  shall  get  over  smiling  when 
I  think  of  Gussie  Pugh,"  Ernest  remarked.  "  How 
I  hated  that  girl.  I  named  a  punching-bag  after 
her  once." 

"  Well,  you'll  get  over  that  just  as  soon  as  you 
see  her.  She's  a  crackerjack!  "  Phoebe  exclaimed. 
"  And  I'm  simply  crazy  about  her  husband." 

"  The  Deane  boys  will  be  over  this  afternoon," 
Ernest  went  on.  "  I  met  them  yesterday.  Oh — 
and,  Phoeb',  who  do  you  suppose  is  at  the  Wilders'  ? 
Fay  Faxon!  I  came  out  with  her  on  the  train  last 
night.  She's  been  divorced  from  that  man  she 
eloped  with.  She's  resumed  her  old  name.  She's 
awfully  faded.  In  fact,  I  didn't  know  her.  She  had 
to  tell  me  who  she  was.  I  used  to  think  she  was  a 
pippin." 

"  There,  there's  the  dinner-bell,"  Mr.  Martin  ex- 
claimed. 

"  And  here's  fadder,"  Phoebe-Girl  shouted.  She 
raced  into  the  hall  to  meet  the  gentleman  whose 
figure,  beginning  to  swell  a  little,  still  displayed  all 
the  original  athletic  outlines  of  the  genial  Tug. 
"  Now — don't — break — my — glasses !  "  came  to  the 
group  in  the  parlor  between  the  flurries  of  Phoebe- 
Girl's  chirping  kisses. 


330  The  Found  Children 

Late  in  the  afternoon  Mrs.  Seaver  came  over  to 
the  Martin  house  with  her  daughter.  Their  arrival 
was  greeted  with  acclaim. 

"  Grade,  you  bad  chicken  to  go  and  get  engaged 
when  we  thought  you  were  still  a  little  girl,"  said 
Phoebe,  kissing  her. 

"  And  where's  Ray?  "  the  others  chorused. 

"  He's  coming  later,"  Gracie  said.  She  was  a 
tall,  slender  creature,  undeveloped  even  for  her 
eighteen  years.  She  looked  exactly  what  her  mother 
must  have  looked  at  her  age.  Her  dark  eyes  were 
too  big  for  her  little  face.  Her  dark  braids  were 
too  heavy  for  her  little  head.  But  there  was  a  soft 
deliciousness,  a  kitten-like  helplessness  about  her. 
When  any  one  addressed  her,  her  cheeks  grew  pink 
and  her  eyes  liquid;  she  seemed  to  sway  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  voice. 

"  Isn't  it  lovely,  Mrs.  Seaver?  "  Sylvia  asked. 
But  Mrs.  Seaver's  drooped  figure,  her  dark-rimmed 
eyes,  must  have  apprised  her  that,  from  the  mother's 
point  of  view,  it  was  far  from  "  lovely."  Sylvia 
rushed  on  with  many  swift  comments.  Mrs.  Seaver 
did  not  have  to  answer  her  question.  But  as  Sylvia 
talked,  she  gazed  vaguely  about. 

The  big  room  seemed  full  of  young  people.  One 
group  chattered  about  the  fireplace  in  the  front 
room.  Another  had  gathered  in  a  whispered  con- 
versation on  the  couch  in  the  library.  Mrs.  Seaver's 
face  grew,  if  possible,  more  dreary  in  expression. 
"  Where's  your  mother,  Phoebe?"  she  asked  list- 
lessly. 


The  Found  Children  331 

"  Upstairs  in  the  Playroom,"  Phoebe  answered. 
"  Oh,  I  beg  pardon,  Mrs.  Seaver,  I  forgot.  She 
told  me  to  tell  you  to  come  right  up  there.  Oh, 
good!    Girls,  there's  Ada  Warburton.,, 

Mrs.  Seaver  climbed  the  stairs  slowly.  A  gay 
clatter  and  chatter  of  happy  youth  followed  her. 
As  she  turned  the  second  stairway,  the  walls  seemed 
to  shut  it  off.  From  above  came  to  take  its  place 
another  noise,  a  low,  steady  murmur.  Mrs.  Seaver 
paused  in  the  doorway. 

The  big  room  had  changed  in  the  course  of  its 
history  from  nursery  to  playroom,  from  gymnasium 
to  dance-hall.  Now  it  had  reverted  to  type — it  was 
nursery  again.  Low  shelves,  everywhere,  held  books 
and  toys.  Above  them,  a  modern  landscape  paper 
showed  incidents  in  the  old-fashioned  fairy  tales. 
Kindergarten  tables  and  chairs  filled  the  center. 
Cot-beds  occupied  three  of  the  corners. 

At  one  end  of  the  room,  in  front  of  the  fireplace, 
sat  Mr.  Martin.  It  was  his  voice  that  had  made 
the  murmur;  he  was  reading  aloud  to  an  attentive 
little  audience.  The  three  boys — Phoebe's  Toland 
and  Ernest's  twins — sat  grouped  about  him.  Ber- 
tha-Elizabeth lay  in  his  lap,  her  head  on  his  shoul- 
der. Her  soft  fine  hair,  straight  except  where,  at 
the  ends,  it  turned  upward  in  a  golden  ripple, 
sprayed  against  his  black  coat  like  a  shower  of  fairy 
rain.  Her  lids  had  fallen  half  over  her  deep  eyes, 
but  their  look  had  set  itself  far  off  as  though  she 
saw  the  tale  enacting  itself  outside  the  window. 
One  of  Mr.  Martin's  hands  held  his  book  but  the 


jt 


332  The  Found  Children 

other  clasped  Bertha  Elizabeth's  pipe-stem  fingers. 

At  the  further  end  of  the  room  rocked  Mrs.  Mar- 
tin. Beside  her,  working  with  water-colors  at  a 
little  table,  Phoebe-Girl  colored  the  Scriptural  pic- 
ture which  she  had  brought  from  Sunday-school. 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Seaver,  there  you  are!  "  Mrs.  Martin 
said  in  a  tone,  half  welcome,  half  relief.  "  Come 
right  over  here  where  we  can  talk.  I've  got  some- 
thing to  tell  you.  Land,  Phoebe  seems  to  find 
Phoebe-Girl  so  much  trouble.  She's  been  as  good 
as  a  kitten  ever  since  we  came  up  here.  It's  a 
knack,  this  managing  children.  But,  Lord,  I  sup- 
pose we  all  have  to  learn  by  experience.  And  I 
must  say  Phoebe  does  very  well.  Her  children  are 
all  healthy — and  that's  the  main  thing.  Some  of 
the  things  she  does  sound  strange  to  me — but  I  don't 
know  as  there's  any  harm  in  them.  She  lets  them 
sing  kindergarten  songs  between  the  courses  at  the 
table,  for  instance.  She  says  it  keeps  them  in  their 
seats  better  than  anything  she  can  think  of.  Gracie 
come  over?  " 

"  Yes." 

"And  Ray?" 

"  He's  coming  later."  From  Mrs.  Seaver's  tone, 
it  was  again  evident  that  her  dejection  had  not  les- 
sened since  the  morning. 

For  a  moment  Mrs.  Martin  was  silent. 

From  the  other  end  of  the  room  came  a  piping 
clamor  of  approval. 

"  That  was  a  nice  story,  grandpa  I  "  "  Read  us 
another,  grandpa !  "    "  Read  one  about  a  wild  tiger, 


The  Found  Children  333 

grandpa !  "  "  Read  one  about  a  flying-machine, 
grandpa !  "  And,  finally,  in  Bertha-Elizabeth's  soft 
tone,  "  Tell  us  a  story,  grandpa.  I  like  your  truly- 
own  stories  better." 

11  All  right,"  agreed  Mr.  Martin.  "  I'll  tell  you 
one  more.  But,  remember,  this  will  be  the  last. 
Once  upon  a  time,  a  long,  long  time  ago,  there  lived 
in  a  land  very  far  distant  from  here " 

"  Mrs.  Seaver,"  Mrs.  Martin  said  in  a  low  tone, 
11  I  have  been  thinking  over  what  you  told  me  this 
morning,  ever  since  you  went  home.  It's  sort  of 
haunted  me.  And  I've  made  up  my  mind  that  I'd 
tell  you  something  that  I've  never  talked  over  with 
any  living  creature  except  Edward.  It  seemed  to 
me  that  my  experience  might  help  you  a  little.  You 
remember  you  were  saying  to-day  that  you  were 
afraid  you  wouldn't  be  able  to  keep  up  with  Gracie's 
set  and  that  you'd  sort  of  fall  behind  and  grow 
rusty  and  get  to  feel  out  of  it." 

Mrs.  Seaver  nodded.  Her  eyes  filled  as  they  went 
from  Phoebe-Girl's  flying,  paint-stained  fingers  to 
Mrs.  Martin's  face. 

"  Well,  that's  exactly  how  I  felt  for  a  while  after 
our  two  children  were  married.  There's  no  use  in 
talking,  the  young  generation  is  always  different 
from  the  old  one.  I  remember  how  much  talk  there 
was  in  my  family  at  some  of  the  things  Edward 
and  I  did  when  we  were  first  married.  Everybody 
thought  we  were  going  into  bankruptcy  because,  ac- 
cording to  North  Campion  ideas,  we  didn't  save 
enough  money.    Well,  I  couldn't  help  feeling  a  little 


334  The  Found  Children 

that  way  about  Phoebe.  It  seemed  to  me  she  was 
awful  extravagant — two  maids  in  the  house  and  a 
nurse  for  Bertha-Elizabeth.  And  insisting  on  their 
wearing  black  suits  and  white  caps.  And  always 
having  her  meals  in  courses  and  giving  such  elab- 
orate dinner-parties.  But,  as  Edward  said,  why 
shouldn't  they  if  they  could  afford  it?  Then 
Ernest  got  married,  and  though  he  and  Sylvia 
started  in  much  more  modestly  than  Phoebe 
and  Tug,  still  they  had  far  more  to  do  with 
than  Edward  and  I  had  at  first.  And  Sylvia 
was  so  clever — she  makes  two  dollars  do  the  work 
of  one.  She's  much  more  economical  than  Phoebe. 
And  such  a  good  housekeeper.  Well,  perhaps  you 
remember  how  she  kept  the  twins  when  they  were 
babies — neat  as  a  pin.  Then  Ernest  began  to  go 
right  ahead.  Edward's  very  proud  of  the  progress 
he's  made — although  I  say,  and  I  shall  always  main- 
tain it,  he  works  altogether  too  hard.  Then  they 
moved  from  their  little  flat  into  the  house  they're 
in  now.  Gradually  they  fixed  it  all  up.  They 
began  to  entertain,  too.  Tug  and  Ernest  both  say 
you  have  to  entertain  in  business  nowadays.  Why, 
if  any  of  Tug's  friends  come  on  from  the  New 
York  office,  Phoebe  gives  them  a  dinner  the  mo- 
ment they  get  here.  She  says  she  looks  upon  it  as 
one  of  her  regular  household  expenses." 

"  But,  although  nobody  saw  her,  the  wicked  fairy 
was  present  all  the  time,"  came  Mr.  Martin's  voice. 
"And  suddenly  she  advanced  and  said  in  a  cruel 
voice,  '  Although  I  have  not  been  invited  to  the 


The  Found  Children  335 

christening,  I,  too,  have  a  gift  for  the  baby  prin- 
cess/ " 

"  Well,  at  first,  we  went  to  all  the  dinners  they 
gave.  But,  somehow — I  don't  know  how  it  was — 
we  didn't  seem  to  fit  in  with  all  those  young  people. 
In  the  first  place,  it  bores  Edward  to  get  into  a 
dress-suit  so  often.  He  works  very  hard  in  the 
office  and  when  he  comes  home  he  likes  to  relax.  It's 
queer — Tug  and  Ernest  don't  seem  to  mind  it  at  all. 
Phoebe  says  it's  a  matter  of  habit.  Tug  gets  home 
on  an  early  train,  takes  his  bath,  and  dresses  for 
dinner  every  night.  He  says  it  refreshes  him.  But 
Edward  doesn't  see  it  that  way.  And  then  I  had 
to  have  so  many  new  clothes.  But  the  worst  of  it 
was  that,  with  all  the  company,  we  didn't  really 
have  a  chance  to  talk  to  the  children.  As  for  the 
grandchildren,  they  were  always  in  bed.  There 
came  a  time  when  we  didn't  seem  to  see  any  of  them 
except  in  a  haphazard  way.  It  wasn't  as  if  Phoebe 
and  Ernie  were  tied  down  by  their  children.  They 
weren't.  Young  folks  aren't  nowadays.  They've 
always  had  a  maid  to  stay  with  them  nights  when 
they  went  out.  No,  it  was  more  that  they  were 
going  all  the  time.  You  know  they're  in  with  that 
young  married  set  that  lives  down  round  Murray's 
Corner  and  they  have  very  gay  times." 

"  The  poor  little  princess*  hands  began  to  grow 
and  grow  and  grow.  Pretty  soon  they  were  as  big 
as  bread-and-butter  plates,  then  they  were  as  big 
as  soup  plates,  then  they  were  as  big  as  platters. 
But  they  stopped  there.     The  poor  queen  almost 


336  The  Found  Children 

cried  her  pretty  eyes  out,  she  was  so  ashamed.  No- 
body was  ever  allowed  to  see  the  princess.  They 
kept  her  hidden  safely  away  in  the  Secret  Garden." 
"  Well,  Edward  and  I  talked  it  over.  We  said 
we  were  too  old  to  keep  up  with  all  the  ways  of  the 
new  generation,  but  if  we  didn't  keep  up  with  some 
of  them,  it  would  pass  us  by.  We  made  up  our 
minds  to  work  up  some  scheme  by  which  we  should 
see  the  children  in  peace  and  comfort  at  least  once 
a  week.  It  was  Edward  who  thought  of  this  one — 
that  the  two  families  should  come  here  every  Sun- 
day for  all  day.  And  that's  what  they  do  now, 
week  in  and  week  out.  Phoebe  and  Ernie  get  here 
early  and  the  children  come  from  Sunday-school. 
Everybody  in  Maywood  knows  that  they're  here 
and  every  Sunday  they  come  dropping  in  during  the 
afternoon  and  evening.  I  let  both  the  maids  go — 
so  there's  no  complaint  there.  But  I  always  have 
plenty  of  cold  meat,  a  big  salad,  and  a  freezer-full 
of  ice  cream.  And  anything  else  they  want — hot 
biscuits  or  rabbit  or  fudge — they  can  cook  them- 
selves. Well,  it's  worked  like  a  charm.  In  the 
afternoon  Phoebe  and  Sylvia  and  Ernie  and  Tug 
stay  downstairs  and  visit  with  their  friends — and 
Edward  and  I  come  up  here  with  the  children.  They 
have  their  supper  here  and  I  put  them  to  bed.  And 
then  Edward  and  I  have  supper  and  spend  the  even- 
ings with  the  young  folks.  Well,  I  can't  tell  you 
how  much  I  enjoy  it  and  Edward  Martin's  grown 
ten  years  younger.  That  was  what  I  dreaded  most 
about  the  children  marrying — it  would  take  all  the 


The  Found  Children  337 

young  company  out  of  the  house.  But  you  see  now 
we've  got  it  back  again." 

M  And  there,  under  the  huge  rock,  lay  a  wonderful 
box  of  carved  gold.  The  Handsome  Young  Prince 
seized  it  eagerly.  It  opened  at  a  touch.  As  the 
cover  lifted,  there  came  from  it  an  odor  of  wild- 
roses  and  violets  and  honeysuckles  and  new-mown 
hay.  He  saw  that  it  was  filled  with  a  soft  trans- 
parent fluid  like  a  melted  moonstone.  It  was  the 
Magic  Ointment.^ 

"  But  after  all,  that  isn't  the  best  of  it,  Mrs. 
Seaver,"  Mrs.  Martin  said  solemnly.  "  The  best 
thing  is  that  we've  found  our  own  children  again  in 
our  grandchildren.  I  can't  tell  you  how  I  hated  to 
have  Phoebe  and  Ernie  grow  up — and  yet  I  wanted 
them  to  grow  up,  too.  But  you  know  how  a  mother 
is.  Every  period  of  a  child's  life  is  so  sweet  you'd 
like  to  keep  them  that  way  forever.  But  you  can't. 
Life  is  kinder  than  we  think  though,  for  just  as  it 
took  our  children  away  from  us,  it  brought  them 
back.  Sometimes  I  feel  as  if  we  were  living  it  all 
over  again.  I  can't  tell  you  how  many  times  on 
Sunday  afternoons,  Edward  has  looked  over  to  me 
and  said,  '  I  should  think  that  was  Phoebe,'  or 
1  Doesn't  that  sound  like  Ernest?  '  It's  as  if  we  had 
all  we've  ever  had  and  a  great  deal  more  besides. 
For,  instead  of  two,  we've  got  five.  Now,  Mrs. 
Seaver,  that's  what  you've  got  to  do  if  you  want  to 
keep  Grade  and  her  children.  Make  it  so  easy  and 
happy  for  her  to  come  home  that  she'd  rather  do 
that  than  go  anywhere  else." 


338  The  Found  Children 

"  I  guess  you're  right,  Mrs.  Martin,"  Mrs. 
Seaver  said  tremulously.  "  Anyway,  I'm  going  to 
try  it.    I  do  thank  you  for  telling  me.    I  guess " 

11  Well,  chicks!  Supper!  "  Phoebe's  gay  voice  in- 
terrupted from  the  stairs.  She  appeared  in  the 
doorway,  carrying  a  tray  covered  with  pitchers  of 
milk,  glasses,  piles  of  bread.  "  It's  time  for  little 
folks  to  eat  and  go  to  bed.  How's  mother's  lamb- 
baby  been?  "  she  inquired  fondly  of  Phoebe-Girl. 

"  Very  quiet,"  Mrs.  Martin  said  triumphantly, 
"  not  a  bit  of  trouble.  My  land!  "  For  the  de- 
lighted Phoebe-Girl  stood  up,  revealing  that  she 
had  painted  with  vivid  scarlet  every  button  and 
every  bit  of  white  pique  that  trimmed  her  little  green 
gingham  frock. 

uOh,  what  a  naughty,  naughty  little  girl!"  Phoebe 
exclaimed.  "  What  am  I  going  to  do  with  you?  " 
Phoebe-Girl  dimpled  but  visibly  repudiated  all  re- 
sponsibility in  this  problem.  "  Well,  I  can't  scold 
you  to-night.  Grandma  says  that  mother  was  just 
exactly  as  naughty  when  she  was  a  little  girl.  Be- 
sides, it  will  all  wash  out."  Phoebe  began  to  set 
one  of  the  little  tables. 

"And  so"  Mr.  Martin  concluded  rapidly,  "  they 
lived  happily  ever  afterward" 


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